Misfits
by Flash12ssg
Summary: Gamzee, Tavros, Sollux, and Karkat are a literal garage band of outcasts. They strive not to be accepted but to show people how to accept, and they'll show their town exactly what a few misfits can do. Fail summary is fail. Eventual PBJ.
1. In which you are Gamzee Makara

"For the last time, this is not Halloween! Take that repulsive—no—_offensive_ substance off of your face and look like a respectable human being!"

You sigh for the fifth time today as yet another teacher pitches a fit over you're the 'offensive substance' covering the vast majority of your face. Okay, yes, it's pretty much clown makeup, and yes, it does freak the underclassmen out, but you're not about to go down without a fight.

"Listen, Mr.… Whoever-you-are—Mr. Senior teacher face: there's a little thing in this world I like to call freedom of expression." You play it cool, as you're used to stuff like this. "You like to wear suits and ties and bug-eyed glasses; girls I know conceal anything that could become a zit in the next month, turn their lips every color of the rainbow, and wear so much mascara their eyes pop; I wear face paint. We're all making a statement here, even though I may not be dressed to impress." You gesture to the skeleton face presently sitting atop your head in hoodie form, drawing attention to the bones decorating the rest of the garment. Your knee pokes out from a rip in your jeans (one you personally created, you might add) as you lean against the wall. It may look like you're cornered, but you know differently.

"Young man…" Mr. Senior teacher face warns. His face is turning a rather disturbing shade of red, and his breath fogs his glasses: all zillion centimeters of each lens. Well, he's mad. "I know more about you than you think, and I wouldn't be this… concerned if you knew what to do with your life. I've been told by every teacher you've had what to prepare for, and I consider this an early start to your time in my class." You blink, taken aback. Out of all of the situations you've encountered, this is not the most common. Heck, this hasn't happened once since you donned the paint. You decide to go with plan B: forget civilized conversation and tick him off.

"So you think the circus isn't a respectable career, huh?" You smirk, rub a small dot of paint off each side of your face… and draw two streaks of pasty white on his. "Well, I hope that changes your mind." And for good measure, while he's still spluttering, you pinch his nose and say, "Honk, honk."

For a moment, everything is silent.

Then the teacher almost literally explodes.

"DETENTION!" The middling man shouts. He scribbles something frantically on a little, important-looking, and very familiar piece of paper; tears it out of a little, important-looking, and very familiar pad. Then he sticks it on your forehead. You watch it un-stick itself and flutter lazily onto one of your shoes.

"Okay," is your nonchalant reply. You pick up the detention note and survey it. Sell by date: one week from now.

"I want you to march to the nearest sink and wash that grime off your face, and I will not go away until I see you do so!" More threats from the raging 'educator' open up a loophole you can't help but slip through. Like a boss.

"You mean you're gonna follow me into the boys' room?" You ask, the disturbed look on your face only half-faked. "What if I have to take a leak?" Mr. Senior teacher face sighs. This part of the battle is yours for the winning. You walk in and do exactly what you said you had to do because really, you weren't lying about that last bit. After, you decide to finally do what he had said. If you took too long, he'd get suspicious and then walk in, and Gog knows you wouldn't want him to invade your privacy. Your face is now dripping wet and free of paint, and now, when you look into the mirror, you can see the scars. After two whole years, the three long gash marks imprinted diagonally upon your face are still there. Wow. They would be cool if they weren't so ugly.

The teacher seems lost for words as you walk out. He starts, finally, to speak. "How did you…"

"Cat fight," You say, and he nods. "So," you immediately change the subject, "When does detention start? Tomorrow? Cool beans. Am I free to go? Thanks a million, teach. See ya!" You are out the school doors before, you suspect, he can process all you had said. Upon your triumphant escape from the deadly war prison that is school, you find your best bros waiting, acting as cool as they can be, by that weird streetlamp. You know the one with the face graffiti on it? Yeah, that's the one.

"Oh! Hi! How come you were kept late?" Bro number one wheels over to you, his expression way too sincere for a guy in eleventh grade. You pay no heed and ruffle his hair. He laughs.

"The usual," You answer coolly.

"Detention?"

"Yep." His face falls. Now he just looks like a puppy that had just been kicked. Crap. "Sorry, Tavbro. When teachers make fun of your face, what're you gonna do?" Tavros gives another, weak laugh, one you return.

"Really Gamth? Again? The thcool year ithn't even half over yet!" Bro number to marches in your general direction, probably having one of his bipolar fish-fits, for lack of a more profane word. "What are we going to do about the band?"

"Hey, hey, it's cool, Sol! How about you guys get into detention with me and we can pass notes. Plus, we still got today. I came up with some killer lyrics for our next song, if anyone's interested."

"There'th no way I'm thtepping foot in that curthed plathe."

"I really don't want to get in trouble, so…"

A sixth sigh escapes you, a fond one this time. "Alright, alright, jeez!" You grin the grin of defeat, which isn't as creepy without the face paint on. "Now Tav, we should really get you home. Your mom's gonna have an aneurysm or something."

Tavros tilts his head up from his wheelchair with a look in his eye that makes both you and Sollux, aka bro number two, jump. "Turbo speed?" He asks with what you know is fake innocence. You pinch the bridge of your nose and nod, while Sollux makes several undistinguishable hand gestures that you think mean no.

"Turbo speed."

You grab onto the handles of Tavros's chair and break into a run, propelling him through your neighborhood's own little pedestrian rush hour with Sollux sprinting behind, dodging Millicent Bystanders along the way. The two who aren't falling behind let out a whoop and do a wheelie that almost sends them crashing into an elderly couple, while behind you, you hear something along the lines of,

"Ga…Gamth! Wait for me! I'm… I'm dying here, come onnnn!"

Your name is Gamzee Makara; life is good.


	2. In which you kind of freak out

"Tho thith ith our new piethe, huh?" The Sol-meister remarks. On his head. Taking up a good portion of the couch in Tavros's garage, you know the one that is way, way too comfortable to be that old? Yeah, that's it. And he said you were weird. It's kind of obvious now, but you are now in said garage with your broskis, just chillin' and reading over lyrics you came up with in English II. You have decided to pass them around for critique, even though both you and Tav both know that Sollux is a synthesizer artist (or whatever you call them) and not a lyricist. "'Deal the Cardth…' Thoundth interethting, kind of dark, too. I think we could uthe it." He folds the inconspicuous sheet of notebook paper that contains your ill rhymes back in half and hands it to Tavros. "What do you think of it?"

Tavbro surveys the paper, now unfolded, with childish excitement. Really, if you hadn't grown up with him, you would think he was much younger than he is. "This is really cool, Gamzee," he remarks, smiling. "Sollux is right, it is pretty dark." He stops for a second, though, and his eyes travel to the middle of your song. "Uhh, but," he starts, and you have a pretty solid idea of what he's finding wrong, "there's no rap part, that is, what am I, uhh, supposed to do?"

You do the most obvious thing you possibly can in that moment—face-palm with a strength that makes your face sting. "Bro," you suggest, "d'you think you could harmonize for this one?" The Taurus nods with what you presume to be uncertainty. You smile lopsidedly. "Awesome. So it's settled?"

"What'th thettled?"

"The fact that this could be our Battle of the Bands preliminary piece, that's what's settled."

"Alr—Wait. WHAT?"

You're all freaks here. You chose the band name specifically for that reason, that and "Misfits" sounded pretty cool, in a rebellious sorta way. There's no way you three could fit into that dark abyss of depressing knowledge you call school. Okay, yes, you're the only one who actually dislikes school for the learning, but whatever. This is your story. Who, you wonder, would ever take a bipolar, crazy-eyed computer nerd, a cripple with a self esteem of about negative five, and an insane clown? …Which has absolutely NOTHING to do with ICP; don't even bring that up.

At least your bros have something going for them. You acknowledge this fact as you stare at your old electric guitar, like it could see the future or something crazy like that. All you see is your own reflection, apathetic, face-paint-less, and scarred. You would like to think that your guitar is your future, but that would just be lying. Your band won't stay together; you know that for a fact. Sollux wants to be a computer engineer—heck, he could probably get a job as one now, what with his mad programming skills. Tav is looking for something to do with prosthetics—not for himself, though. Your bro is just selfless like that, wanting to help other people like him get back on their feet.

You, on the other hand, are as good as screwed. You tap on your guitar, counting your options on one hand. There's music, there are odd jobs, and there's the circus. You don't even know what you could do _there. _Aside from your all-but-mastered unicycle stunts, you don't know what skills you have. Wait, you're sounding depressed again—no, you're making _sense_ again. This can only mean one thing.

"Oh, crap! My pills!" You fly from your position on the couch and, forgetting exactly where you are supposed to turn, you end up doing some sort of psychotic chicken dance. Smooth.

"Did you forget again Gamth?" Sollux asks without moving an inch from his current position. Your bros have seen this all before. You have a schedule of forgetting your ADHD medicine now; it happens about every Friday, in other words, today. One very, _very_ important fact about you: you must never forget to take your medicine more than four days in a row. You went without them for a week once, and, well, let's just say that you're glad those students are patched up now, and that you're still in school.

"How'd you know?" You joke while feeling around in your pockets, earning a puzzled glance from Sollux, and then searching through your backpack for your prize. (Boy, if the teachers ever caught them there.) "Aha! Found them! Mother-honking miracles." You earn a glance from both friends as you embrace your little baggie and the bottle of lukewarm Faygo you spontaneously pull from the side pocket of your backpack. You hold up the drink as if to toast. "Best. School. Ever."

Tavros tips his head in confusion. "But I thought you hated school," he says.

"I do," You twist open the bottle, the hiss of carbon dioxide escaping almost sensual to you, and down your pills with a great gulp. "But it's got Faygo. Your argument is invalid."

"They only have it becauthe you recommended it."

"Exactly! Think of their profit! Besides, the old general store's closed, so where else can I get it? And you guys know about me and Faygo."

"Yeth, Gamthee, we know," Sollux grumbles, surely anticipating a spout of lame metaphors. He's right.

"Ya see, me an' Faygo are like apples an' pie," you start, and recline again as lisp-brotha groans, flips into a sitting position, and tries to set up his synthesizers while covering his ears. "We're like Nemos an' anemones, we're like flowers an' bees, and we're like… uhh…"

"Peanut butter and jelly?" Tavros offers.

You grin. "Yep, that too."

Sollux pauses in mid wire and asks, "Did you guyth hear that?"

Tavbro looks around. "Hear what?"

"I thought I heard thomething breaking," Solbro mutters and scratches his head, and Tav starts.

"Breaking? Did something happen just now? Is someone breaking in—?"

"No, no, it'th nothing like that. It wath like a wall being broken or thomething, whatever."

"I'm still, uhh, kind of nervous."

"Don't worry, Tav. It's all chill. What I'm saying is that me an' Faygo are inseparable. You get my drift, Solbro?" You receive another grumble.

"Thut up and let me work."

"Fine, fine." You relent, letting Sollux do his thing. Some how he can wire his crazy synths to work like an organ, one keyboard on top of the other. You don't even know how he gets his hands to all those keys, but somehow he does. Tavros follows suit and wheels over to his drums. You hop up and plug in your guitar, tuning to Sollux's synth. Pretty soon the school of rock is in session. Well, you can't really call it rock; it's more like rock/electronic/whatever-else-seems-like-it-works/a little bit of rap on Tav's part, but that wouldn't sound cool, now would it? Speaking of Tav…

You look back at your drummer, his eyes trained on the music you scribbled for him and his voice adding a high harmony to yours as you sing your tentative tune. You think it's pretty awesome that such a meek and unconfident kid could have so much going for him, what with his brains, his personality, and his utterly boss drum skills. His rhythms are improvised, as are Sollux's and your chords, because really, this is the song's first practice run, With the chorus coming up, you begin to sing without taking your eyes of Tav's work. You like what you see—that is, if he remembers the rhythms, very little revising would be needed. People call your voice soulful, maybe bluesy; that is exactly what you're going for when you start the chorus.

_Deal the cards: I don't care,_

_You don't know me;_

_Give me love, give me hate,_

_Give me lonely;_

_Put my heart on a plate,_

_Eat it slowly;_

_I'll do better off without it anyw—_

He looks up at you and you lose focus, startled. Your hand catches a thin string the wrong way and you end up cutting your thumb and stopping altogether. You curse colorfully in several languages before sticking your thumb in your mouth very stupidly to stop the bleeding, and your band-mates abandon their temporary scores to ask what's wrong and (in Sollux's case) face-palm.

"Ugh, not again, Gamthee."

"Yeah, again," you respond through your thumb. Not again is right. This has been happening more and more often. You would think of something that involves your Tavbro, and then you would turn to him, you know, to see if he's doing alright and not falling down stairs or anything, but by then you would've caught his eye and, while you try to come up with an excuse for your staring, do something incredibly stupid. And somehow this only happened when Tavros was concerned. Weeeeeiiirrd. But after some serious self-evaluation and many sleepless nights wondering what this overwhelming feeling is, you have come to a conclusion.

"Tav, I swear your clumsiness is rubbing off on me."

"What? C-Clumsiness?"

After more (rather painful) practice runs, you are alerted to the sound of a cell phone beeping incessantly. "Solluuuxxxxx," you call over, being too lazy to move from your current position. "'Ey. Yo' phone ringin'." You start, smirking. "'Ey! Yo' phone ringin!"

…"'EY! YO' PHONE RI—"

"I UNDERTHTAND THITH, GAMTHEE!" Talk about no sense of humor. Your Gemini bro nearly punches his phone to read his text. "It'th from KK," he announces. "He wanth to know if I'm freeloading, and he sayth to get my thorry expletive-expletive-expletive over here if I am."

"Sollll~"

"Gog, what?"

"You're staying at Karkaaat'sss~ for the niiiiighttt~ ooooooohh~"

"For the thecond time, thut up." Nevertheless, your words make his face color, if only a little. "Do you really think I want to thee mature adulth thcreaming at each other? I think not." With that, he unplugs the synths, packs his bags (though there really isn't that much to pack), says farewell—literally, he says that exact word; Gog, such a nerd—and leaves. And thus the meet is over, but, as always you stay and talk to Tavros for another good half hour about topics like the Battle of the Bands and please don't spin my wheelchair around as much and why don't you have your face-paint on? For such a meek kid, he can really talk miles around you when you bring up a subject of his interest. Finally, after you tell a joke that brings tears of laughter to both of your eyes, you head out and shuffle home.

The lights are off when you get there, meaning one of two things. Either your dad's asleep or he's just not there. You feel a twitch in the back of your mind and hope it's the former. More twitches come to your attention as you find the doors locked and fumble for a key.

"Dad?" You call into the darkness of your house, large but mostly empty space. It was considerably fuller when your mom was there, you have been told, but you've never seen that. You never knew the woman; she had some drug problem that caused you to be born with… well… issues. Emotional ones. That said, the only thoughts you are thinking right now are _don't let there be a note don't let there be a note please please PLEASE don't let there be a note._

There's a note.

It's smack dab in the middle of the barren breakfast bar on a sheet of carelessly torn, wide-ruled notebook paper:

_Gamzee,_

_Work will run late tonight, and then I will be having a drink with the lads. Don't expect to be home tonight. I hope you do not mind. Get yourself something from the fridge for supper._

_Love,_

_Your old man._

He's left again. He's been home late and away early all this week, giving you absolutely zero chance to even communicate, and now with the weekend coming all of your chances to tell him that you're running low on pills and exams are coming up and that he might not know his son as well as he thinks are down the drain. You're trying your hardest not to get mad and not be selfish, but he has done this practically for the majority of your existence and why won't he come home and you've got to stop shaking right now gripping the counter like that is just going to hurt your hands where did the world go what are you even doing.

Then, darkness. Just darkness. And you think you hear yourself screaming but you're not quite sure and the nightmares you had last night and the night before that and the night before that are forcing themselves into your head. The blood oh GOD you can taste it but you hope with all your heart that it doesn't really exist and that it's not really all over your hands but you just don't know anymore and—

You find yourself on your knees with the contents of your schoolbag strewn across the room and the note illegible, mostly because it's in tiny shreds about you.

Welp. You think you might have overreacted a little.


	3. In which you get a little help

**((Umm, hi, readers! ...whoever you are. I just want to say thank you for waiting and sorry for making you wait so long. Let me just give you a brief analogy to my uploading time:**

**Picture a snail. Picture that snail in quickly drying hot glue. On a carpet. Trying to reach the upload button which is on the tip of one of the blades of a ceiling fan. And the ceiling is 100 feet high. The snail has a portal gun, but, being a snail and therefore without arms, it cannot pull the trigger. Oh, and there's an earthquake going on at that very moment. And finally, when the earthquake is over, the snail has inspiration to add to the chapter so it has to go back to its computer. Then another earthquake happens.**

**That's how I update. But fortunately, everyone who's reviewed has together picked up the portal gun and tossed the snail that is me int-THIS IS STUPID. Anyway, thanks so much for your reviews! I really appreciate them! Well, here goes...))**

**((Homestuck belongs to Andrew Hussie, but the story and the bumble-bike is mine.))**

You have always been a very angry child.

Then again, your father has always been a very weak man.

Your life has been like this ever since your mother died, that is, the day you were born. The fact that you were mom-less, though you got plenty of sympathy from it, has never really bothered you. At least your dad still loved her, despite her problems. It would be worse if she lived and then they had some angry divorce while you were in elementary school, or if they abused you, or if they constantly fought. That's right; you could be Sollux right now and watch them start an argument from every conversation they have. Thankfully, your old man does none of those things. He's just not _there._ Yeah, you see him sometimes, but usually it's a constant routine of going out with "the lads" after working from early in the morning to who-knows-when o'clock, getting drunk off his rear, and either freeloading with one of said lads or coming home to a person named Gamzee (oh right, you're his son, you almost forgot) who would take care of him in his drunken state. If you were normal, perhaps there would be room in you to forgive.

But you're not normal, not in the slightest. You thought the face-paint and the throwing of your schoolbooks every which way (oh, was that a clown picture that just fell? Shame) expressed that. Along with your Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder comes this rage that sometimes even pills and sugar highs can't hide. Technically, it's a miracle that you weren't born with the same addiction your mom had, but since that didn't occur, you have always needed a foundation, something to hold on to. And so, to calm yourself down, you created a group of clowns (you have always admired clowns: what of it?) in your head that could bring change to this stupid world using only the 'miracles' they saw in everyday life, like the feeling you get when you look up at a perfectly blue sky; yeah, they could use that, or a toaster, since those are pretty miraculous, too. They were everyday heroes but with face paint and you basically created your own religion out of them.

That religion was shattered two years ago, the same week you were out of your medicine and the same week dad didn't even come home, drunk or otherwise. The fellow who broke your beliefs, a cool-kid by the name of Dave Strider, presented a video to you about, guess what? A group of clowns bringing change with miracles, that was what. Except the change they envisioned wasn't right. It was twisted, and they scared you so much, especially when you realized that this was what could become of your dreams. So they shattered. And you were so mad at Dave for crushing them, and so mad at the pill container for being empty so long and just so furious at your dad for leaving you pill-less and for that matter company-less for a week without so much as a "Hi, son, anything you need?" that you just sort of lost it. The next thing you remembered was that there was an ambulance taking a boy and a girl away and blood was running down your face and bro number three aka KK aka Karkat Vantas was shaking your shoulders and putting a trembling finger to your mouth to keep you from screaming anymore. You spent most of your suspension in therapy, and your old man was required to come, as were your friends. Those were some of the happiest days you've had in a while. Eventually they reached a decision to put you on new medication, which controlled your anger somewhat. What really helped was the presence of your friends, always cheerful—okay, so one of them was cheerful; the other two were still their grumpy, skeptical selves. Their simply being there still made you feel better, less ashamed, less distraught.

You wish they were here right now, and at the same time you don't. You long for their company, but you don't want them to witness more of your anger. Hissing, you pull yourself up to your feet and gather all of your strewn about belongings; some of your homework is damaged beyond repair, but instead of redoing it you just stuff it in the trash. You chug down a can of orange Faygo, crush it, and then trudge to your pigsty of a stereotypical teenager's room without eating anything else and flop onto your bed. You fall asleep with your clothes and shoes on, still mumbling curses at your father and just wanting to forget already.

In what seems like five minutes, you are yelling yourself awake and drenched in a cold sweat. Your gaze immediately travels to your hands, which, although they're shaking like mad, are completely devoid of the blood you envisioned in your nightmare. It's always the same dream; the first to die is always the Serket girl (Tavros's personal bully since second grade), then Ampora, and then others you can't even name until you're completely surrounded. And their heads aren't even attached to their bodies but the heads are whispering things like "how could you do this" and "I thought we were friends" and one croaks out your name behind you and you stare right into the lifeless eyes of Tavros Nitram. Tonight is no exception, and you feel like you're going to hurl even though you haven't really eaten anything since lunch. Unsteady and lightheaded, you stumble towards the bathroom and stare into the toilet bowl for what seems like an hour with no luck. Swearing, you push yourself to your feet and splash cold water from the sink onto your face. Life isn't good, really. Your friends are what are good, no; they're great, the best. Life just sucks. Or maybe you're just having mood swings. Again.

You lie awake in bed with your shoes finally off and moonlight streaming onto your sheets, lumpy from all of the you curled inside them, and you stay that way for who knows how long. When you awoke in the first place the clock by your bed said 3:15 am, and when you flopped back onto your bed only half an hour had passed; your eyes, about to slide shut from the fatigue that overtakes you in what feels like an instant, drift over to the clock as it barely strikes 7 am. Groaning, you bury your face in the pillow to avoid the weak morning sunrays peeking through your blinds.

It's eleven am by the time you trek over to Tavros's place. Your dad still isn't home, but he's left the keys to your car. Did you mention you had one? Oh, guess not. Anyway, you have a car—well, more like half of one. What you're currently sitting in, fresh bottle of Faygo in hand, is a rickety, violet pick-up truck from what you believe to be the nineteen seventies, and that rattles with every bump you hit. You're not really sure where your dad bought this car, but you suppose you should thank him for it again, if he comes back anytime soon. You momentarily lose focus and swerve, then quickly regain your sense of direction, thankfully avoiding a middle-aged woman. Personally, you have no idea how in the world you acquired a driver's license in the first place, but you're not criticizing the authorities here, for once. Technically, the drive is a waste of gas, since you could have just walked (or ridden your unicycle, but that would have taken much more time and a few injuries) over there, but you don't care. You can see your eyes in the rear-view mirror, and they make you look twice as old as you already are: they're baggy, bloodshot, and sullen. This fits, seeing as, despite the fact that you actually got a decent amount of sleep, you are a tired and grumpy mess and you need some serious rejuvenation; said experience is exactly why you're driving to Tav's in the first place. You know you're being sort of selfish, but it turns out he's used to it by now. Besides Karkat, he's your main ranting buddy, and he greets you every time with a big, bright smile and let's you spill your guts to him—curse, complain, whatever.

You see his face the moment you pull into the driveway. The door to his one-story house is wide open and he's just sitting there in his wheelchair, grinning like usual, and you manage a sleepy smile as you shuffle up and casually open the door, when really there's a mysterious organ in your chest doing some kind of acrobatics routine. You try your best to disregard it as he begins asking exactly one brazillion questions; really, this is no surprise to you, as the sensation has been there for a while, not as strong as now, but still there. You also become aware of the clothes that are wrinkled as heck and smell faintly of yesterday. Once again, you don't remember being self-conscious before, but there's a first time for everything. The second you flop onto the old armchair in his living room after saying hello to his mother, he says,

"You had the dream again." It's kind of scary how well he knows you and all your problems, but at the same time it makes you feel so much better that someone listens. In response to him, you nod, slumping halfway out of your chair. Your bro wheels over next to you, genuine concern on his face.

"Bingo," you mutter, sarcastic, but without ill intent. "Plus, Dear Dopey Dad is dead drunk and who-knows-where. Now you can get two crappy situations for the price of one!"

"Really?" He looks shocked, but in reality he's seen this all before. "How did you deal with it?"

"…Threw things."

"Gamzee!"

"I didn't _mean_ to! That is, I didn't really realize I was throwing things. You know how it is." You proceed to converse about all kinds of stuff, veering from your intended topic to hilarious stories you've heard. "And then—get this!—she turns around, getting all up an' scared about the noises outside. 'Cause you know, it could be anything, an' it's around some sorta corner, so she can't get a good whiff. An' then she hears, 'oh, Karkat!' an' comes running 'round the corner, not bumpin' into anything, and ends up biting into the face of Egbert. Egbert! 'Cept there's no Karkat there. Egbert was just playin' tricks. An' he goes, 'But Terezi! I am not a homosexual!'" Tavbro is clutching his abdomen; giggling like crazy and nearly crying from it all when you remember a little something you have on weekends. "OH FLYING MOTHER OF—MY JOB!" You scramble out of your seat and rush for the door, calling a quick thank-you to the Nitrams before hopping into your ride and speeding to the local combination pizza hut and taco bell.

You suppose you didn't mention you had a job, either. It's actually not flipping birds—you mean burgers: it's cleaning up after the customers that eat the burgers—rather, tacos and pizza slices. You dash into the fast food joint, jump into your uniform, and proceed to mop like you—wait, no. You sign in, _then _you mop like you mean it. You whistle while you work, and then somehow it ends up developing into a song, and by the time you're through with it you have a healthy crowd of people around you and you're sort of dancing with your mop. As always, the manager comes out, shoos the customers away, and gives you the usual scolding for fooling around. But by now you're in a good mood again, such a good mood that you don't really listen, nor do you care. Funny, weren't you heading off the deep end this morning? Oh yeah, that was before you talked to your Tavbro. Once again, weeeiiiirrrddd.

Tav has repeatedly questioned why you work, but you never tell him exactly. Your family, although small, is pretty well off, so no one but you understands why you have both a weekend job and a summer one. The only others that know about you are your employers, and that knowledge is probably why they don't fire you on the spot. See, you are mopping with a goal in mind here—to earn the money for something very expensive. And metallic. And… leggy. And by that you mean prosthetics. Because of an accident involving two cars at high speeds and some poor soul in a delivery truck, Tavros's father was killed and Tavros himself was nearly flattened. He survived, minus his legs below the knees, but his confidence was never the same. When asked by the few people who know of your intentions why, exactly, you want to do this, you simply shrug. Truthfully, you have no clue why you want to sacrifice time to keep up your grades or just plain laze around except for the fact that you know Tav wants to run about again. He's told you more times than you can count—casually, but you don't take his tone for granted. But when you do get the money, man, the look on his face will be priceless!

You're pondering that thought when the door slams open, then shut, and a thin hand that you realize belongs to none other than your bro Sollux thrusts a chain of various shell bits and a shark tooth into your face. After you push his hand far enough a way from your vulnerable eyeball to look at it properly, you realize that what he's holding is the necklace you bought the last time you were at the beach. The bro looks pretty ticked, out of breath, too; you see the familiar yellow and black bicycle (the bumble-bike as you call it) outside and realized he rode here to give this to you.

If anyone looks at you while this is happening, he or she might describe your face as 'lighting up,' but that would be stupid and a little creepy, considering they would have to stare hard. "Wow, thanks, man!" you exclaim, take the necklace, and clasp it about your neck. Introducing Gamzee Makara: THE EPITOME OF MANLINESS. Note the manly tone implied in the previous text. "I've been all up an' looking for this for like a week!" At this your Solbro seems to calm down and wipes his hand on his brow.

"Well," he says, finally, "It'th been at my houthe for exactly that long thinthe you left it on the think and I kept forgetting about it. Thank gog I heard your dump-on-wheelth roaring by my plathe or I would've done tho again!" Despite the fact that he's still snapping at you and lisping all over your face, you know he's glad you've got it. Who wouldn't be though? You think you look pretty darn good in this thing. "Now, conthidering I came all the way here for thith—"

"You live like five miles away—"

"Thut up. What I wath going to thay ith, could you make me a milkthake or thomething?"

You frown, which makes him frown, which in turn makes your frown deeper. "Sorry bro," you tell him at last. "I mop floors, not make treats. Hey!" An idea hits you from nowhere. "Let me see if I can get you one free of charge." With that you march up to the counter—Wait, again; you ask Sollux what flavor he wants (chocolate: this earns a high five from you, the other chocaholic) and then place your order. Nevertheless, the lady there says you'll have to pay, so you make it two. By the time your mop is put in its place, your broski is sipping away. "So," you begin once you sit down. "How's the freeloading?"

"Pretty good, actually," he disregards your use of the word. "Kk'th letting me thtay for the weekend."

"Niiiice. You going to be able to stand his sister?"

"'Courthe. The'th only a frethman, but I dithaprove of her room."

You smirk. "Oh, her shipping wall. Who's she added?"

"Kk and Tz, of courthe, but thomehow I'm in the picthure now. Then there'th me and thome nerd I don't even know, and…" he adjusts his crazy glasses in thought, "Oh! You and Tv."

"Tv?" You're not sure you understand.

"Yeah, Tavroth, you dumbutt." Sollux pretty much growls this, but it quickly turns into a cheeky grin when he sees the look on your face.

"You can't be serious." You can see your reflection in a window, and you can tell why bipolar bro is trying not to laugh. Your mouth is hanging open very stupidly and your normally half-lidded eyes are like saucers. And you don't even have to look to tell the blood rushing to your face is showing through your newly applied face paint. "But- but- but—me an' Tav are just bros!" You protest. "I mean, heck, I know I swing both ways, but I—I've never—"

And there he goes. Sollux is laughing silently and abusing the table with his fist. "I didn't…" he pauses to cover his mouth to keep from disturbing other customers, "I didn't thay it wath going to be accurate! Jeeth!"

Your only response is a nonchalant "Oh."

By the time you're halfway done with your shake, Sollux is already done and heading to his bike, pulling one skinny leg over it, hopping up, riding away—what one would normally excpect out of someone leaving in that manner. You, on the other hand, are still staring out the window at a spot slightly above where the bumble-bike sat, wondering what in the ever-living heck is going on with your head. That is, you do that until a four-year-old across the room sends Mr. Ice Cream Man off Mt. Table and to his inevitable doom. So you go about getting Mt. Table's hero, Supermop, and rushing to the scene of the crime, thereby shrugging off everything Sollux said about the dreaded shipping wall. What's funny is that you've essentially been "shrugging it off" longer than you can remember. Is something burning? No. For the first time since—what—sixth grade, you've actually started to think.


	4. In which you take a shot

**Guys. GUYS I AM SO SORRY. I know it was like over a month since this last uploaded but I have had the biggest writer's block. And since I had to have two teeth pulled and my braces tightened, I wasn't up for much of anything for a while. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited, et cetera. It really means a lot to me, and I love getting them! Oh, and the binary fission joke goes to SpectralReplica on Tumblr. **

**So without further ado (and several more typos,) I present Misfits chapter 4.**

**Homestuck and it's characters belong to the Huss of Lips. The human versions and the story are mine.**

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><p>Every school has it. In each institution there is a single room reserved for that little place in every child's heart where they can proudly store all their loathing. All of it. Every adult remembers those days of sweat and tears and just so much pain, at projectiles hurled at their heads with no regard for the humiliation and concussions that come after it. Every school has that one corner where bullying is okay, since obviously the kids being targeted need to 'shape up.'<p>

That's right. You're talking about gym class.

There you are, at nine a.m. on a dreary, cold Monday when you really should be sleeping. That's a good idea: wake up at ten, go to school at eleven, lunch at twelve, and go back from one to five or so. That's a schedule that would suit you; you're a night owl anyway. In fact, if you had your way, you would get up at three p.m. God, you wish winter break lasted longer. So you're standing at the front of the gym (not the main gym, that's for sports only), the tiny, ramshackle maze of a thing with levels you can't even find entrances too in gym clothes that are a size too big. Heck, you even had to turn your t-shirt inside-out this time; so what if your favorite bands are a little on the raunchy side? You reach down once again to pull the bottoms of your sweatpants out from under your shoes, only to have them inch embarrassingly down your hips. By the time you're standing up and controlling that problem, the coach is already barking orders at the sleepy collection of teenagers, and you're nearly trampled in a mass of joggers. Once you gather yourself mentally, you run to at least be somewhere in the middle and do so quickly, Tavros wheeling himself close behind. It's not that you're not physically fit; you're thinner than most of the kids here (mostly because you forget to eat sometimes), but you're also lazier. Much, much lazier. For the third out of one thousandth time today you wonder why you aren't home, jamming on your guitar in preparation for your upcoming band battle. You spot a tiny, ghostly pale figure a few students ahead of you and run to catch up. Upon noticing your arrival, the boy ends up pretty much sprinting to get the heck away from you, but you do some sort of antelope-like maneuver and catch up easily. He gives up as you become level with him, giving you the death glare, which is actually kind of frightening, considering his eyes are that weird shade of brown that you can almost call red (he insists they aren't, usually with a few choice words between the 'they' and the 'aren't').

"Whoa, man, you get up on the wrong side of the bed?" you ask none other than Karkat Vantas, and none-other-than-Karkat's gaze intensifies about tenfold.

"Shut up."

"Good morning to you too, grumpypantsKat," you retort, but fondly. Normally, you would cringe at the sound of such a cheesy term, but there were so many memories behind this one. In middle school especially, when Karkat was in a bad mood ('bad' being a relative term) he would sulk by pulling his pants up as far as they would go and sort of hiding in them; sometimes the more flexible ones would go up to his neck. This did not go over well with his teachers or with his parents, who never did think that he was really sulking alone in his room. You got so many laughs out of his little habit that you told his now girlfriend, Terezi, about it. Yes, she's blind, but she had started out with decent sight (due to a genetic disorder it completely deteriorated by age eight) so she could picture it. Now the two of you use your mental image as a taunt: you haven't let him live it down.

This fact is the very reason why he detests the name. "Didn't I tell you to cut it out?"

"Cut what out?"

"The. Freaking. Stupid. Pet name."

"Fine, fine, whatever. Do you really think you should get so mad while you're jogging? I don't think that's all that good for you, ya know." For such a small kid, he can really yell when he wants to; it's like he's some sort of angry rat terrier, or a wet cat, a psycho vampire wet cat or something. You get bored listening to him grumble expletives at every living thing in this gym, so you hang back until Tavros catches up to you. Yes, he still has to wheel around the gym even though he can't technically run, or walk for that matter. You understand that he has to be fair, and though Tav may still look flimsy, he's got more strength in his arms now than you do. But seriously, you swear your instructor can sometimes be as bad as—oh dear god, not her.

"What are you talking about? I want you to get out of that sad excuse for a chair and run! At least you can walk on your knees, right? Or can't you even do that?" Enter Vriska Serket, mean girl extraordinaire and the bane of Tavros's existence. Vriska is… well… let's just say that she is very good at her job, and has caused your bro many a tear; now she expects him to walk? Ironically (you called it karma), her family was actually in the other car, not the truck, which collided with Tav's. She managed to only have a broken arm, with the rest of her family intact, but she still says that the accident was the fault of Tavros's father, not the truck that was obviously going the wrong way. Think about it: Tavros's _dad_, who, you know, _died in the crash_. You don't know how Tav can stand it, or, for that matter, how Vriska can put up with herself, but there she goes, as venomous as always.

"Vriska, really! I… uhm… that is… if I still had the strength in my knees, I still wouldn't be able to balance! Because, err, aren't your lower legs used to balance when you're doing that, a-and—"

"Excuses, excuses, excuuuuuuuuses!" She sneers. "What, do I have to push you out of your chair so you can prove me wrong? Fly, Pupa, fl—"

You've only listened for a minute when you march (or in this case walk awkwardly backwards) the rest of the way back, so you're in step with the two; you hope your expression is friendly enough to mask the boiling in your abdomen. "Heyyy, Serket. How's it goin'? Good? Good." You continue nonchalantly. "Y'know, I don't think Tav up an' appreciates all the ranting you're doing this early in the morning. You think you could stop?" Overly polite: down here on the Virginia coast they wouldn't think anything of it, but to a northerner like you (where do you think you got your love of Faygo? The ever-loving FAYGO CUPCAKES of course.) it means trouble. "I think it'd be in your best interest to scurry along and maybe chat with some of your friends. If there's something wrong, you can rant to them instead of takin' it out on Tavros here."

She scoffs. "Really, Gamzee? Can't you let him go two seconds without stepping in and being his nanny? He's our age, and he can fend for himself, right Tavros?" She smirks at you, then down at him, most likely triumphing at the verbal bull's-eye she shot at both of you. You take a breath to retort, frustration only rising, when the coach blows his whistle for all of you to come to the center of the gym. You barely listen as he drones something about basketball and orders you to back against the wall for the selection of teams. Almost mechanically, Karkat, Tavros, and you are one person apart from each other, placing the three of you on the same team. Jerseys are giving to the opposition to distinguish the two groups. There's only one problem—Vriska is on the other team, and you're absolutely sure she's going to use Tavros's handicap and Karkat's short fuse to your advantage. Before you have time to think of a strategy the basketball is in the air, and you're running for your life after it. The match, to you, is tedious. There's just running back and forth and back and forth, and besides keeping Vriska from fouling Tav every chance she gets, there's not much to do. You make a few shots, but the other team makes more. Soon there's one minute left, and you finally snap out of your haze and see what's going on with the ball.

It's in Tavros's hands, and Vriska is guarding him something _fierce_. As in, the moment he drops the ball to wheel anywhere, it'll be in her hands and across the court. Pretty soon the poor guy is surrounded, but despite this his face looks determined. The expression quickly falters as taunts of 'wimp' and 'fairy-boy' are thrown his way.

"Tavbro!" you call over, but he doesn't turn around. "Toss it to me! I've got this!" With his eyes still trained on the basket, he replies,

"It's alright, Gamzee! I-I want to make this shot myself, if that's okay with you." A chorus of laughter erupts from the students surrounding him.

"Do something by himself? Tavros? Ha, that's a laugh!"

"C'mon, fairy-boy! Use your wings and fly! Faith, trust, and pixie dust, right?"

"Wait. Wait. Maybe he'll just kiss us as a diversion! He ain't called a fairy-boy for nothing."

Your blood is boiling now, but Vriska's comment about being his nanny is still a figurative arrow in your knee. The coach starts to count down: twenty seconds to go. You have a lapse in judgment, maybe in sanity, as you barrel through the bullies and scoop Tavros onto your shoulders, the ball still in his hands.

"TEN. NINE."

He yelps as you hoist him up; with your height and his combined, he's nearly level with the bottom of the basket. "Wh-wh-what are you doing, Gamzee?" his voice cracks, and he sounds annoyed. Maybe Vriska's right. Maybe you are looking out for him too much.

"EIGHT. SEVEN. SIX. FIVE."

But you're not making the shot for him: no one is but him. And with that burst of confidence you shout up, "You can do this! Shoot!"

"FOUR. THREE."

He thrusts the ball from his hands, and Tavros almost falls.

"TWO."

It circles the rim, once, twice.

Then, with a swish of the net, it falls inside.

"ONE. ZERO!"

There is no fanfare, no cheering as the two of you collapse into a laughing mess on the gym floor. Karkat gives you an emotionless clap on the back, but that's it. Heck, you didn't even win the game, but as you plop your bro back into his seat, you feel as if you brought home the gold. Your celebration is short lived, however, as you remember there's still a whole school day ahead of you and you are currently a sweaty mess. You high five both Tavros and Karkat once more before trudging to the locker room and proceeding with your life.

Fourth period: ancient history, aka the only educational class you actually like and the only one you take with all of your friends. You plop down next to Sollux (you were lucky enough to be assigned a seat next to someone that didn't find you a freak) and immediately get out the homework you had over the weekend. Yes, shocking, you actually did your homework, but there is just something about your teacher that makes you think that you could do well in this class. And you do. Here is the only core subject you sport an A in, a low A, but an A none-the-less. You look around the room, as you do every day, observing the old documents and artifacts that he has collected; there are so many letters in so many different languages on one wall, and the other sports drawings of creatures you haven't even seen before. Models of centaurs, maybe from Greek myth, get their own little corner, as in appreciation. Other, stranger creatures entrance you until he steps in the room and asks for the homework. Work that isn't hands-on in his classroom is rare: he's a go-out-and-do-it kind of guy, and this makes him, despite the fact that he could retire at any time, asked to stay by students and guardians alike. The class moves much too fast, and several crude drawings on a timeline later you're off to lunch, then periods five, six, seven, then life again.

…By life you mean detention.

By detention you mean the most boring hour of your lifetime so far. The students there are all rowdy, and while you like a good crowd, you don't like being stuck in a room with a bunch of jerks when you could be practicing with your best pupa pals on the song that you hope could get you past the preliminaries. But NO: instead you're scribbling down more makeshift verses and trying not to be annoyed by the paper balls thrown at your head and the snickers that abound when they make their mark.

"Hey, stop it, bro."

"Why? He's not doing anything, just bein' a goth wannabe, like usual."

"He'll freakin' kill you, man. Like those kids in freshman year."

"Pshht, I ain't scared a no freak. Look."

Without warning, a senior snatches your lyrics right from under your hands. Smirking, he holds it close to his face, trying to discern your illegible handwriting. "Aww, look, he's writin' a love song." He drawls, his teeth showing on one side of his mouth as his smirk turns to a sneer. "It's prob'ly for his little boyfriend, the fag. I bet he's fruitier than you are, too. You seen him in a dress yet? No? Jus' another one to burn, I suppose." In an instant you're on your feet, your paper back in hand, and your fist full of the guy's shirt. He's shorter than you are, but more muscled; the fight would be evenly matched, if you were up for another suspension.

Thou, who hast evoked the rage of Gamzee Makara, be ware, for he hath a flipping crapton of problems. "_Listen_. I don't care what you call me." You growl, your face close enough for him to make a joke about it if he wanted to. "But don't you _dare_ spew your prejudices out at other people, because they don't deserve your insults, got it?" You drop him, making sure he experiences some of your righteous fury in the process before taking your seat again. "I'm not gonna fight you today," You inform him, calmly, as though nothing happened. "You're not worth my time." This, of course, brings him outrage.

"Coward!" He shouts. "Fight like a man!"

"Sure, and have your college opportunities erased on the spot." Oh, SNAP. While he's still yammering insults, you mutter, under your breath but still loud enough for him to hear it, "Pencil-dick."

He walks away in a solemn and dignified silence. You are perfectly still, but the proverbial fist of victory is being pumped sky high. The hour goes by relatively quickly while you sit in silent celebration. Why haven't you used that more?

In all your life, you have seen your dad sober fewer times than you have seen him drunk. This didn't annoy you at first: he always sobered up when taking you to friends' houses and various places of the like, and when he was tipsy, he was simply a funnier person. You used to be neutral and maybe even like when you could smell alcohol on his breath, because he would take you up in his arms and dance with you and he only dropped you once or twice. You would put on some music and he would tell the funniest jokes, which became more hysterical when he got the punch lines wrong (why did the chicken cross the road? BINARY FISION—wait.). When he was 'normal' he was just your dad, not your entertainer; he was simply the man who would take you to school and bring your meals and nag you about doing your homework instead of hiding in the tree house all day. He was the one who introduced you to Tavros, though, or rather, provided the circumstances for you two to meet. You both had an appointment with 'the feelings doctor,' you for your anger and he for the teasing he was getting at school. At seven, Tavros Nitram, sans Mohawk but full of fluffy hair, talked a mile a minute and ran almost as fast; his eyes were bright with childish excitement and he freaking loved animals.

"When I grow up, I want to be a zookeeper!" He would say, over and over and over again. "I want to get real close to the animals and feed them, and… and…" and he would go on and on about all this work he would do, all of it requiring foot travel, and you would always say,

"That sounds so cool!"

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Gamzee?" The question always took you off guard, and you were always at a loss.

"I dunno," would be your first answer, then, "It sounds stupid, but I wanna be famous." He never laughed at you for that.

He never laughed at you for anything.

Even as your visits to the counselor became more frequent, as you realized you went to the same school and witnessed the bullying firsthand, as you put a temporary damper on it and gained his trust.

He always laughed with you.

Meanwhile, your dad was spending more and more time in the office, and less and less time with you. He stopped being a happy drunk and became an emotional, bitter one. He never went into a rage, never hurt or harmed you, physically or verbally. But he would talk about your mother at length, describing every detail of a woman you never knew since she was dead before you were fully born. Once or twice you accidentally found your dad in one of his moments of weakness, crying with his back to you in his old, fatherly armchair, fully sober. You figured your mom must have been an incredible person if her leaving made your dad so sad.

Now, as you walk up to your house and push open the door without having to unlock it, you remember all those times. He's in the armchair again, his lanky build and heart-shaped face just like yours, his wispy, Uncle-Sam beard graying and fast. A half-empty glass of bourbon rests on the table beside him, but he leaves it untouched. His eyes, dark brown and nothing like your strange amber ones are empty and unfocused; your father looks up at you slowly and speaks, his voice wavering, reminiscent of the bleating of a goat.

"If you hadn't been born, would your mother have still been alive?"

You stare at him dumbly. _He's drunk,_ you remind yourself over and over._ He's drunk and he doesn't mean it. Yeah, I'm not great, but surely—_

"Get out."

"What?" Your voice sounds as if it hasn't been used in days when you finally muster the effort to speak.

"You look too much like your mother. I don't want to see you for a while."

He turns away now, refuses to meet your eyes. "I'm not her, dad." _He's drunk. He knows very well I'm not my mom. He's having a lapse in judgment and within an hour or so he'll be back around. He's not a bad person, he…_ you continue to think up reasons why you shouldn't hold it against your father for saying those things, even as you slam the front door behind you, guitar in hand. Even as you jam the key into the ignition of your beat up truck, prompting a spurt of smoke from the exhaust as you start it and begin to drive. You're going over to practice. Yeah, that's it. It's not your place to rant; as Vriska had said, you're not his nanny, and he's not yours.

The lyrics in your hand as Tavros answers the door, Sollux at his heels—err, wheels, are scrawled and messy. You look at them once more before stepping inside and realize that they are your mind.


	5. In which you get wet

((Finally, chapter 5! I expected this to be about 1,500 words shorter than it actually was, but I kinda got carried away... Anyway, I'm somewhat pleased with how this turned out, and reviews are always welcome and appreciated!

To the reviewer who likened this to Not Simple: I see the resemblance as well. I've read the book, and I love it to bits. I really didn't mean for the previous chapter to be that similar, and I'll try to be more original from now on. Thank you for your input!

Homestuck and its characters belong to the Huss of Lips. The humanstuck designs and plot belong to me.))

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><p>Days pass. And those days turn into weeks and those weeks turn into a month. You hear no further nonsense from your father, but the students carry on, absolutely sure you are now not only a freak but a flaming homosexual (which you have been pondering as of late). Your detention slips by without any more disturbances from those seniors, though, which provides some relief. The mild fall is fading into a crisp winter with a guarantee of snow, which only means one thing.<p>

Epic.

Winter.

Shenanigans.

By this you mean your annual Christmas/Hanukah/Kwanza/ whatever-wintery-holiday-suits-your-lifestyle get-together with you and the bros. Your dad has always been generous enough to grant you the house some day in December to frolic with friends. Then again, with the amount of time he leaves you to your own devices you could have had seventeen full-blown high school parties, booze and everything, without him so much as suspecting you had one. You're in no way religious, but Christmas-y time to you means having family there, and your old man is always at home and sober for Christmas. Always.

You let this slip your mind (the party of sorts is still a couple weeks away) and focus on the fact that you've created a song with a bass part but with no bass to play it. Sollux already has his hands full with his synthesizing and taking over the drums on a particular part; your friends have repeatedly questioned your methods, but you keep them locked up tight. They call you Mister Zuipper-Pips. Aside from the horrid spelling, they are not incorrect.

You turn your attention to your computer screen, a dastardly XP that has encountered more problems than you can trace, and proceed to log in to Pesterchum (chat program extraordinaire) message the guy who might be right for the job.

**terminallyCapricious [TC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG].**

CG: NO.

You nearly choke on your Faygo laughing. Somehow, somehow Karkat seems to know exactly what you're going to say. Then again, you've bothered him about this more times than you can count.

TC: aWw, I dIdN't EvEn AsK yEt.

TC: :o(

CG: FINE.

CG: IF IT SATISFIES YOUR IDIOTIC BURNING DESIRE TO REQUEST THE SAME THING OVER

CG: AND OVER

CG: AND OVER AGAIN, BE MY F***ING GUEST.

CG: REALIZE, THOUGH, THAT I HAVE A TENDENCY TO NOT GIVE A S***

CG: GOG D***ED CENSOR! EQUIUS I WILL MURDER YOU.

TC: HaHa, MaN, dId Eq CoMe OvEr?

CG: REALLY.

CG: YOU REALLY HAD TO ASK THAT.

TC: YuP. ;o)

CG: I CANNOT BELIEVE YOUR STUPIDITY SOMETIMES, GAMZEE.

TC: yOu'Re WeLcOmE, bRoSePh. HoOoOoNk.

TC: HoW'd He Do It?

CG: I BET NEPETA KNOWS MY PASSWORD. THAT'S IT, SHE DISCOVERED MY NEW ONE TOO. THAT GIRL IS BENT ON ANNOYING THE H*** OUT OF ME

CG: OH, COME ON, H*** IS NOT EVEN A BAD WORD.

CG: D***IT.

TC: So I bEt YoU kNoW wHaT i'M gOnNa Up An' AsK hUh.

TC: If YoU wAnNa WoRk YoUr BaSs MiRaClEs At My PlaCe.

CG: GOD THAT SOUNDS SO WRONG.

TC: pFfT yEaH i KnOw. I mEaNt PlAy ThE bAsS fOr BoTb ThIs SpRiNg.

TC: YoU iN? yOu KnOw YoU pWn At ThAt ThInG. sAmE gOeS fOr YoUr VoIcE bRo. :o)

TC: It'S a MiRaClE.

CG: I DON'T KNOW WHETHER I SHOULD BE FLATTERED OR DISTURBED.

TC: nO wOrRiEs, BeSt FrIeNd.

CG: THE ANSWER IS STILL NO, BY THE WAY. IT WILL ALWAYS BE NO, AND NOT A SINGLE PATHETIC ATTEMPT BY THE LIKES OF YOU WILL GET ME TO PLAY IN YOUR GAGGLE OF DUNCES.

TC: :o(

TC: WhY nOt?

CG: WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS. I KNOW YOU'RE HAVING FUN, BUT I THINK IT'S BEYOND ME. IF YOU WANT TO DICK AROUND AND MAKE HAPPY MUSIC TOGETHER, BE MY GUEST. HAVE FUN WITH YOUR HIGH SCHOOL DICKERY.

CG: HICKORY DICKERY DOCK.

TC: YoU'rE hAvInG fUn WiTh ThIs DiCkErY tHiNg, ArEn'T yOu?

CG: SHUT UP. IT'S ONE OF THE ONLY WORDS THIS BUMBLING DEVICE WON'T CENSOR. LOOK. DICKERY: LAND OF A THOUSAND JERKWADS. SEE?

TC: YuP, i Do.

CG: OH GREAT. MY MOM HAS SOME MUNDANE TASK FOR ME TO BREAK MY BACK ON. I HAVE TO GO.

TC: SuRe ThInG, bRo. Oh, AnD i ThInK i KnOw WhAt YoUr PaSsWoRd Is.

CG: THIS BETTER BE GOOD.

CG: I'M NOT ABOUT TO WASTE MY VALUABLE TIME LISTENING TO YOU STRUGGLE AND WHINE ABOUT HOW YOU SWORE IT WAS JUST SO SIMPLE AND CRAP.

CG: HEY, LOOK. THAT DIDN'T GET CENSORED.

TC: No, No, I rEaLlY tHiNk I gOt It ThIs TiMe.

CG: SPIT IT OUT, GAMZEE.

TC: Is It…

TC: PaSsWoRd?

TC: …BeSt FrIeNd?

CG: I HATE YOU

CG: SO MUCH RIGHT NOW.

TC: ;o)

CG: SCREW YOU, AND SCREW YOUR S***-EATING EMOTICON.

CG: I'M LEAVING.

TC: ChAnGe YoUr PaSsWoRd FiRsT. hOnKhOnKhOnK.

CG: I AM FLIPPING YOU OFF SO HARD RIGHT NOW.

CG: MY HAND IS LITERALLY TWO MILLIMETERS FROM THE COMPUTER SCREEN, AND THE BIRD IS DOING A FREAKING PIRHOETTE INTO CYBERSPACE.

TC: dOn'T yOu HaVe ChOrEs To Do?

CG: F*** YOU.

TC: YoU'rE wElCoMe, BrOtHa.

**carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling terminallyCapricious [TC].**

You push back in the spinny chair in your room before you remember you never had such a chair, and you end up falling flat on your back. Yes, you should be discouraged, but for some reason this doesn't get you down. Karkat is Karkat, and eventually he's going to have to give in to his bestest buddy in the whole wide world, because that's what you are: bestest buddies. Your workplace is closed for remodeling, and you would help, but you don't know how to remodel. Additionally, you'd probably just end up giving up early on and annoying everyone else. A Saturday like this one, slightly cloudy, the air crisp enough to require a sweatshirt, makes you want to… do something. You're really not sure what, considering Saturday's are specifically designated for turning your brain off and doing absolutely nothing for as long as possible. Today, however, is one of those days when you're bored out of your skull, almost enough to actually start doing homework; wait, what? Are you out of your mind? And you actually warned a kid about college some time ago! There are certainly better things to do than put your brain to work, like listen to some sick beats, bend the rules a little and actually play some sick beats, or—

That's right.

Tavros's house.

How could you forget your weekly routine of bumming around at the Nitrams'? In the month that has passed, you've almost become part of their family. Normally, with your job to worry about, you'd waste the day serenading your cleaning supplies, but today is work-free and completely open to the imagination. Therefore before you care to think there is a grape Faygo in your hand, and you're strolling to the Nitrams', whistling a tune you heard on the radio, Coldplay, you believe. Upon your arrival, you find the glass door open, an unusual occurrence to say the least. Straining your ears, you barely make out two voices, a boy and a woman… arguing?

"Mom, you don't understand!"

"What don't I understand? Do I not understand that my son getting injured by his classmates is a serious offense?"

"They're not injuries, Mom! It's just a few cuts and bruises. Besides, I probably did something to offend _them_. You know… by…"

"See, you can't think of a reason. I'm calling the principal."

"Don't!"

You don't recall ever hearing Tavros so sure of himself, and you wince. Frankly, you've never witnessed a fight between Tavros and his mother before; usually they're always kind to each other, like and ideal mother-son relationship, but now… now what?

"Why not?" Ms. Nitram's retort is simple and vague, but it's still uncharacteristically scathing. Finally her son gives in.

"I… I'll tell someone. I'll g-get the guidance counselor, uhh, or something. I promise!"

You see no better time than now to make an entrance, not bothering to knock and simply pushing the storm door open. "They'll get him back, you know," is your greeting, your mood almost ruined by the sight of a bandaged up Tavros with the beginnings of a black eye. Ms. Nitram turns to you, confused. "The kids waling on Tav here. Once word gets out that he told a teacher, the only predictable thing to do would be to get him back, probably worse than before. But you don't have to worry, Tav-mom." You flex your fingers in a joking invitation of combat. "I'll take care of 'em." The words haven't left your mouth before you remember Vriska and her statement about your being overprotective of your friend. Your lopsided grin fades as Tavros's mother nods, makes her son promise to tell someone, and leaves, obviously ticked at you. But right now you don't really care; you're too pissed at Tav's tormentors, Vriska, and yourself to give this any thought. You march over to your bro and put a hand on his wheelchair. He gawks at you with big brown eyes and you're self-conscious all over again.

"Hi to you to, Gamzee," he giggles, then cringes and you notice the lump of a bandage under his shirt. Throwing caution to the wind, you lift it up to see a mess of gauze on his side. "They kicked me a little," Tav explains, smiling sheepishly. For a second he looks like he's trying to imitate you whenever you get in a fight, but you won't have it.

"Who did this to you? This is the exact opposite of a miracle, man." Tavros looks to the left, probably in thought.

"I'm not sure, really. I, umm, I think they were a group of… seniors? No, maybe people in our grade… B-But it's fine now, so… so you don't have to worry about me!" The little guy's looking at you with this determination that, to be frank, you would find cute if it weren't for his situation.

"Does it up an' hurt, bro?" You ask, your lazy half-accent returning as you calm down. He shakes his head frantically, cringes again, and slowly nods. "What'd they do to you?"

"Nothing major…"

"I'm not buying that, Tav. You're too beat up-looking, now spill."

"W-well… they kinda pushed me out of my wheelchair, sort of near a short flight of stairs, so I fell down a few of them. And they told me to go up the stairs, and I thought, umm, that this was logical, since my chair was at the top of said stairs. But they w-wouldn't let me get to my chair, and I told them to give it back, and… that's sort of when they started hitting." He squirms as he recalls the past events, obviously uncomfortable with telling you this. So not miraculous. One question stands out in your head, though.

"Tavbro, why were you at school on a Saturday?"

"Oh! That was because we had to do something for a science festival next week!" His eyes light up as he changes the subject.

"…Tavros?" An idea has found its way into your head, one that hasn't been acted upon in years but can technically still be done. The question is whether your bro is up for it.

"Yeah, Gamzee?"

"Let's go on an adventure."

You probably should have thought this over beforehand, seeing as your spur-of-the moment decision leaves you with nowhere to go. So you're wheeling Tavros along, despite his protests, this way and that through town in search of some place remotely interesting. As you amble further away from town, your bro begins to fidget.

"Gamzee… umm, where are we going?" He asks, craning his neck to look up at you. Pretty much every thought of where to go is gone. You really hate when that happens; so you're left to do a startling impression of him as you try to regain your train of thought.

"Let me see… I think we'll go…" You point one way, then another, until your arms are tangled comically around each other. "You'd have to wheel through forest if we go there… that's too out of the way…that place is full of gang violence and stuff like that, which you wouldn't care for…" While you're pondering you get lost in your maze of thought and don't notice your surroundings until a panicked voice breaks through the haze.

"HELP I CAN'T STOP!" You whip around to realize that you've left him on a very steep hill with no legs to break the fall, and when you finally see him he's speeding down the hillside so fast that any attempt to use his hands to brake would hurt severely. "Sorry! Excuse me! Coming through—WATCH OUT AAAAAGH!" Immediately you're sprinting, letting gravity take you faster than you could ever run normally, but he's been gaining speed exponentially, for longer than you have. By the time you're near the bottom of a hill he is rolling over the sand on the banks of a river: closer, closer, you reach the bank and he's hit a rock and landed rear end first in the shallows. Your curse loudly and rush over, feeling your legs turn to jelly from all the running.

"Crap, crap, crap! Tav, god, I'm sorry! This was not I thought'd happen—are you alright?" You're wading in up to your knees without even thinking, shaking his shoulder, watching the water soak into his shirt as he just sits there, a blank expression etched onto his face. "Hey, only miracles now, right? I'll help you get up if you wanna. We'll go home and jam in dry clothes or something, okay—Tav?" He turns to you, still emotionless. You hold your breath.

Then Tavros promptly bursts out laughing.

You stumble from a surprise you're not used to feeling and plop down next to him, which causes him to all out guffaw. In fact, his laughter ends up sounding like a series of squeal-like sounds you can't quite place. Obviously it's contagious, and an involuntary snort on your part ends up turning into mirth that almost matches his: one part confusion, one part relief, and two parts hysterics. You reach over and splash him with river water.

"You got me worried, bro! I thought you were peeved or in shock or hurt or something; something not awesome!" Giggling, he splashes you back.

"It's not your fault, though. That is, you let me roll, but it doesn't matter, I guess."

"And why might that be, huh?"

"Because, umm, because it was so much fun!" This catches you off guard once again.

"Fun? How?" You inquire, and he douses you again, soaking your head and leaving you to smear your face paint in a vain attempt to dry yourself. You retaliate, and a miniature splash fight takes place and leaves you both coughing and chuckling before he responds.

"I'm not sure. Well, uhm, maybe because it was an adventure! W-well, by adventure I sort of thought you meant going somewhere and admiring the scenery, something, err, that doesn't require much movement. But this was more like our old adventures, a-and I didn't expect that, you know?" His laughter has calmed down, but he's staring intensely at the sand next to his leg with a genuinely elated look on his face. He turns to you and meets your eyes directly, an action you almost never see the shy boy do. "Thanks for the adventure, Gamzee!"

You're suddenly flattered, and frankly you weren't expecting your own reaction to a simple expression of gratitude. You break eye contact with Tavros, blaming whatever the heck is going on in your head on the adrenaline that hasn't completely left you. You end up politely responding to a passing fish when it dawns on you that the river can be very, very cold in mid-November and that the two of you should probably be heading home for dry clothes and shelter. Leaving no room for questions, you hoist him up, plop him back into his wheelchair, and head for your place which, you finally remember after staring blankly at an intersection for a solid minute, is much closer to the water anyway.

You find the house empty, untouched since you left. Tavros, who knows your house just as well as you know his, wheels expertly into the den while you take some time to yourself to change and gather clothes for him. You schlep upstairs to your room grab the first two sets of everything you can find, as you've never been one to care about how fashionable you are at any given moment. Sighing, you step out of your drenched outfit, towel-dry with an old raggedy thing that happened to be on your floor from your last shower, and pull on a pair of boxers, pajama pants (with the most epic sombrero decorations you have ever seen on trousers), and an oversized and quite comfy t-shirt. The garments you've chosen for your bro aren't that different, considering they're yours as well. Upon giving your friend the items and another towel, you leave the room to give him some privacy, as all bathrooms are very stupidly on the second floor. This gives you time alone with your thoughts, which is in no way a good thing, seeing as you can never stay on one subject; thus, you try not to think too hard. That day, over a month ago, when Sollux gave you that strange new perspective comes to mind without prompt. You remember reacting uncharacteristically strongly to his suggestions, and then this… this new sensation of flattery and nervousness you've been experiencing for a while, even though you've been friends with your Tavbro since second grade… no, you don't want to think further. Doing that would screw things up majorly; adopting the motto that it was best not to come to any conclusions, you step back into the den at the sound of the television murmuring in the background.

The soaked clothing Tav was previously wearing is out on the back porch sun-drying in whatever weak rays can be salvaged; you silently thank the weather for being so courteous to you, since if it was summer you wouldn't be able to see the clothes for the wasps gratefully accepting a rare drink. As you fall onto the loveseat that your father used to share with your mother way back when, you notice a fairytale spinoff returning from a commercial break (something to do with microwave pasta), and then Tavros. He's almost swimming in your clothes, and you admit you like them to be a bit big on you, though that doesn't help matters; the pajama pants flare out at the bottom, giving the illusion of his actually having legs, and he loses focus frequently to hike the shirt collar back over one of his shoulders. He doesn't seem to be paying much attention to the show though, shirt issues aside. Every so often he would draw a deep breath, open his mouth as if to say something, and the promptly close it again and deflate; that is, this happened whenever you happened to be looking in his direction, which wasn't as much as one would think. Finally, the smaller teen speaks.

"Umm, Gamzee, c-can you listen for a sec?" His words come out as a tiny squeak, and a mix of concern and anticipation seeps through your system. Donning your trademark stoner's grin, you nod, indicating for him to go on. "W-well, this is going to sound a bit awkward… what are your, err, c-criteria for liking someone?"

"How do you mean, broski?" You're genuinely intrigued now, and the concern kind of chokes and dies behind the anticipation, which decides it wants to start an empire inside you, starting with your bloodstream. Today the hemoglobin, tomorrow the world.

"I…I mean, if you were to, like, h-have a crush on someone… how well would you have to know them—that, and what would you s-see in them?" Oh, you get it now. You thoughtfully stroke the stubble you don't have and respond in a way you hope makes sense.

"I really don't care." He stares at you blankly and you elaborate. "It's like, I want them to be nice and funny and care and all, like everyone else. But I don't really mid if that person is a chick or a dude or was a dude and is now a chick or vice versa. Even if they're both or neither, that stuff doesn't matter much to me." Your head begins to spin a bit as you realize you've never told him that before. He takes it in stride, though, and even smiles a little, tells you how you're admirable for thinking that way, which doesn't help your head at all.

"Yeah, but…" Tavros trails off. You give him time to regain his thoughts, and he begins again. "Umm, this sounds… like something a girl would say, but how well would you have to know h—" he catches himself, "that person?"

"Not that well, I guess. They'd have to be nice, funny, willing, all that stuff, but other than that… why?"

Tavros stares at the space where his shoes would have been. "It would have to take a long time for me, I think. O-or rather, they'd have to be a really close friend of mine. Probably, umm, m-male, but close nonetheless. Otherwise… how should I put this… there'd be n-nothing to feel. I-I think there's a word for that, but I… I can't remember…" He can't but you can. It takes you a while, but you realize where he's going. You turn the TV off completely as you realize that your best bro has just come out to you.

It's a bit unexpected, and for a while you don't know whether or not to say something. So the two of you sit in an awkward silence for a good minute before he speaks up again. "W-would you hold it against me?" You lift a hand to your face and realize your eyebrows have creased enough to make you look rather scary without meaning to.

"Of course!" He adopts the look of a beaten puppy, probably without his noticing it, and you face-palm upon remembering exactly what he said and how you must have botched it up big time with your slip of the tongue. "Ah, crud, that came out wrong. Sorry, Tav. What I meant to say is of course not. Y'know, a bro's gonna like who a bro's gonna like. Why should I be all weirded out when anyone regardless has a chance at all this?" You run your hands over your lanky body in a joking attempt to look seductive, prompting a giggle from the shorter teenager. After his second laughing fit of the day, your friend breathes a huge sigh and slumps in his wheelchair, looking like a beat-up ragdoll.

"…Thank you so, so much." He mumbles the words, and they barely reach you, but you can decipher them well enough. There are ten kinds of miracles dancing around in your head at the thought that you helped a bro out. You give two thumbs-up to make up for the fact that you can't think of anything clever to say. More mumbling, and you catch the words, "…was so scared…" That doesn't sit well at all.

"Why would you be scared, brother?" You ask, and apparently he didn't expect you to hear him because his head shoots up and he's all rosy cheeks and wide eyes and stutters.

"O-Oh! Umm, s-sorry, it's just that I didn't know, err, how you'd take it. Y-You know how p-people can be." On an impulse, you get up, walk over, and ruffle his Mohawk.

"Well, I guess you don't know me well enough, huh?" It comes out as a chuckle in the hopes that he doesn't take that the wrong way, too. Across the room, the home phone rings loud enough to wake the dead and you lope over to it before he can move. "Gamzee Makara here. What can I do you for? Oh, Ms. Nitram! Hey, what d'you need? Dinner? It's that time already? Yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks, but I'm all good over here. You're welcome, Tav-mom. See ya. …Taaaaavvvvbbrroooooo." You call over, annoyingly lazily. "You gotta go hooommmeeee. You need fooooooodddd." He wheels over, smiling impishly.

"Thaaaaannnkkk yyooouuuu." He replies, mimicking your lethargy. And with a playful punch on the arm, you're driving him back over to his place, seeing him off to a still-worried mother, and driving right back. A little number one is blinking at you from your computer screen when you shuffle up to your room. Karkat again.

**carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC]**

CG: HEY CLOWN FACE.

CG: WHERE ARE YOU?

CG: YOU SAID WE'D TALK ABOUT THE WINTERY THING YESTERDAY, BUT AS YOU CAN SEE IT IS NO LONGER YESTERDAY, TOMORROW IS SPEEDING AT US LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN, AND WE STILL HAVEN'T FREAKING TALKED ABOUT IT.

CG: YOU KNOW WHAT? I'M WASTING MY TIME HERE.

CG: SCREW THIS, I'M LEAVING.

TC: HoOoOlD uP, BroSkI.

CG: FINALLY.

TC: SoRrY, bEsT fRiEnD. hAd To TaKe TaVbRo HoMe.

CG: AND WHY WAS HE AT YOUR HOUSE IN THE FIRST PLACE?

TC: CuZ wE nEeDeD a ChAnGe Of ClOtHeS. ;o)

CG: …REMIND ME TO NEVER ASK YOU QUESTIONS AGAIN.

CG: EVER.

TC: hOnKhOnKhOnK.

CG: ANYWAY

CG: LET ME TEMPORARILY REVOKE MY PREVIOUS STATEMENT AND REPEAT THE WORN OUT,

CG: WHAT THE EVERLOVING FLIP ARE WE GOING TO DO FOR YOUR STUPID WINTER SHENANGIANS?

TC: sAmE oLd, SaMe OlD, jUsT bRiNg A sLeD iF yOu WaNnA.

CG: FINE.

CG: NOW IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME, THERE IS A CRAZY CAT LADY AND HER BODYGUARD THAT NEED STILL MORE ATTENTION.

CG: GOOD FLIPPING NIGHT TO YOU, SIR.

TC: heY, kArBrO?

CG: WHAT.

TC: dYoU mInD tElLiNg ThEm I sAiD hI?

CG: YOU KNOW NEPETA WILL BE SCARED SPITLESS.

TC: I KnOw, BuT i WaNt To SeE tHeM aGaIn.

TC: ThEy CaN lEt iT pAsS fOr A sEc, RiGhT?

CG: NO, THEY CAN'T.

CG: THEY'RE NOT GOING TO FORGIVE YOU, GAMZEE.

TC: i DiDn'T kNoW wHaT i WaS dOiNg, AnD iT wAs YeArS aGo, tHoUgH.

CG: YOU DIDN'T SEE IT HAPPEN, OKAY?

CG: YOU COULDN'T SEE THE LOOK ON YOUR OWN FACE. I'M SURPRISED THEY'RE STILL NOT HAVING NIGHTMARES. BOTH OF THEM.

CG: I KNOW I'M A GENERAL DOUCHE AND YOUR BEST FRIEND,

CG: BUT I DON'T KNOW IF I CAN DO IT EITHER.

TC: bRo CoMe On.

CG: SHE'S MY SISTER, GAMZEE.

TC: :o(

CG: FINE. I'LL TELL THEM.

CG: BUT IF THEY FREAK, IT'LL BE YOUR CRAP TO CARRY.

**carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling terminallyCapricious [TC]**


	6. In which you reach enlightenment

((Finally, a chapter updated in not butts amount of time! Let me just say that this was fun to write, epecially the last part. I know this might seem a little fast, but I wasn't planning on making this very long in the first place, soooo... have some winter shenanigans. Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews; they are very much appreciated!

Homestuck belongs to the Huss of Lips, but the humanstuck designs and the storyline are mine.))

* * *

><p>The entrance to the second floor of your house stares down at you, mocking you, the assortment of festive supplies scattered about you an embarrassing reminder of your ignorance. Your head hurts; your back hurts; your pride has been pierced with a thousand arrows. In an attempt to sit up, you end up sliding down the two remaining carpeted steps and hitting your noggin once more on the cold, shameful floor. For once in your life you wish you had just listened, because you can't even count all the times this has happened.<p>

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you have been warned about stairs.

Making a sound somewhere between an idiotic laugh and a grumble, you finally push yourself to your feet and lean back down again to pick up your lost party items. There isn't much, really, considering you don't care as much about decorating as having all your friends here and having fun. That's right, today is the day that those glorious winter shenanigans take place, and although you have an odd way of showing it, you haven't been more excited. You sift through your storage bin to find old gel snowflakes that can barely stick on your storm door anymore. Frankly, you hate the things, but they match the mood and you don't really have much else that's holiday-neutral, so why not. They stick rather well on the freshly-washed surface, and you breathe another sigh of relief for the fact that all the cleaning has been done yesterday. Winter break hasn't bored you yet since it has come late this year, and despite the fact that you honestly studied for once in your life, your midterm exam grades are dull aches in the back of your head. You raid the bin of garish holiday doodads in search of maybe one more thing that could go pretty much everywhere and still be mild and easy to set up. Thankfully, your hand emerges from the abyss with a pile of evergreen garlands. Ambling through the house a bit faster than normal, you fling the fake plant matter over windows and countertops and decide that you're done. Back in the front hall, you confirm the fact that if you never have to see another one of these things it will be too soon.

You stumble back up to your room to retrieve the hastily and somewhat carelessly wrapped gifts for your friends. Careful about those pesky stairs this time, you stumble right back down and set them on the old dining room table next to the assortment of munchies. Leave it to winter to actually force you to be productive. The moment your hands are free there's a knock on the door, and when you look at the clock you actually see what time it is, causing your somewhat low energy level to suddenly skyrocket. A quick peek out of the peephole reveals a familiar glasses-clad figure, and you fling open the door, welcoming a snow-covered Sollux inside. Red and blue seems to be a theme here; as he shifts his arms he secures his packages wrapped in paper colored uncannily like his odd glasses, skinny limbs covered in red jacket over faded blue jeans.

"The bike'th on the porch. I hope you're happy that I thpent thith much time freething my rear off to get here." You hold the door open for him by sort of leaning on it, and he dusts off his jacket as best he can with an armful of stuff and steps inside. The first thing you notice once he's away from the glare of the sun on six inches of snow is a very garish scarf so full of various colors you can't tell one from the next wrapped tightly around his neck. He unwinds it without a word and flings it over the coat tree. He must have seen that dopey, confused expression you tend to adopt because he pokes the wet thing and addresses no one in particular. "Hanukah gift from FF and ED. I mean jeeth, what'th the point? I don't even care much about it but they inthitht on thelebrating it with me."

"They? The both of them? Huh."

"Well, it wath mothtly FF'th idea, but thinthe everyone knowth fith-fathe can't get enough of her, he tagged along," he explains, and though his lisp is making it a bit difficult to understand, you get the gist of it: half-Jewish bro receives holiday scarf from friend and her closer friend, simple as that. You relieve him of his presents, secretly checking to see which are whose, before another knock jolts you back to the real world as violently as possible. You can barely call the sound a knock, though, as it's more like a colossal pounding that shakes the doorframe combined with a series of dastardly expletives the neighbors can probably hear. Shaking your head and sighing as if you have a bit of wisdom for your seventeen years, you put down the load in your arms next to the others of its kind and jog back to the front entrance.

You continually wonder how such a tiny, pale kid like Karkat can make such a racket, but there he is: all sunken glare and big, poofy coat and clenched fists. In one hand are three cards, each with one familiar name on them in his girlish writing. The other is bright red at the knuckles and is quickly hidden behind his back. Chocolatey but not very delicious-looking hair is squashed down on his head by a knit hat with a tassel. He steps inside, brushing past the both of you and tossing the cards on the table with everything else. "I didn't have time," he explains, shrugging off layers of outerwear, all of which he most likely needed to keep warm. "There's stuff in there, so stop worrying about what you're gonna get." He looks at you with those frightening eyes and then stares intently at the foodstuffs on the table.

"Help yourself, brother." You leave the door open for the last person to see. "I didn't put these miraculous munchies here for nothin'." Without a word Karkat grabs a single chip from a bowl and nibbles on it, maybe just for the sake of having something in his mouth when asked a question. Sollux doesn't even wait for your permission before he has a handful of pretzels and is gobbling them down at the speed of sound. For such a skinny kid, he could vacuum your entire house of food in record time. You hear the sound of tires crunching against gravel and the last vehicle is in front of your house, an old van that looks as if it belongs in a hippie movie. A birdlike woman helps a teen about your age out of the van, depositing him in his wheelchair and waving goodbye as he rolls to the door. Immediately you're there, holding open the storm door, now foggy with frost, as Tavros, face red with cold, wheels inside. You look back to see Sollux smirking through a mouthful of pretzel, trusty phone in hand.

The moment the four of you are together the room warms up. Karkat makes the gradual shift from crabby and introverted to sarcastic and somewhat willing to talk. Sollux shuts off his phone and manages a few lispy, nerdy laughs. Tavros emerges from a shy shell and babbles from then on. You finally focus and summon your inner host, which is still subpar, and your friends grudgingly let it slide. You start in the middle of the den floor with an empty bottle of Faygo and some truths and dares. Sollux and Karkat call the game immature and girlish, but you immediately ask why that's a bad thing and point to Karkat's gaudy Christmas sweater and everyone shuts up. Your Karbro spends the first part of the game with his turtleneck pulled almost completely over his head so all but his eyes and the tips of his ears, bight red, can be seen. Eventually the two grouches get into the game, and you and Sollux make it your goal to ask the most awkward questions and issue the most outrageous dares possible.

"Gamzee you dickwad, that is personal." Okay, you have to admit not many male persons of your age would admit to sleeping with any sort of stuffed toy, but you've seen Tavros's fairy bull thing tucked neatly into the corner of his bed and you thought you'd give it a shot. The guy asked for truth and frankly this was the most family-friendly thing you could think of; the four of you have inquired and requested much more unadulterated things, but you thought this would just be silly. So you asked and Karkat began pouting and he still is. You snicker as an idea comes to mind.

"Ya know, the more you act up an' offended, the more I think you're just hidin' some creepy collection of stuffed… stuff," you drawl the words out, making sure to sound as laid back as possible; this is not a hard task, since you're currently sprawled out on the couch in your sweats, trying not to fall into a warm doze. You barely react when Karkat begins spluttering and denying everything.

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GAMZEE, I HAVE NO FREAKING STUFFED ANIMALS! ARE YOU HAPPY?"

"Yup."

"Hey, KK, what about Krabbleth?"

"Captor, you will shut the hell up and you will do it willingly."

"Krabbles?"

"Sollux's lying! There is not and has never been anything Krabbles-related in my vicinity."

"Suuuure."

After a few more odd jokes and trying not to gag after licking an unidentified, inanimate surface, you quickly get bored and offer to exchange the gifts. Everyone perks up noticeably, although only Tavros and you admit to it. Flopping off of the couch and pushing yourself to your feet, you retrieve the pile of presents and present them to your broskis. Each takes the gifts addressed to them, as customary.

"So, whose gifts do we wanna open first?" You ask when everyone has arranged their stash into neat little piles. Karkat grudgingly raises his hand, explaining that there isn't going to be much and you might as well get it over with. You open up your card and a grin stretches across your face as a folded paper gift certificate to that old music shop you love so much falls into your lap. It appears Sollux and Tavros have gotten similar items because they're both smiling, Tav a bit wider than Sol, and thanking Karkat in their own ways. You quickly join in.

"You better thank me. I spent good money on these things," is his only reply, although you can barely see the corner of his mouth inching upwards. Sollux volunteers to present his offerings next. Almost all his gifts are electronic, something you would suspect from the guy. As soon as your Karbro unwraps what look like sound-blocking headphones, they are secured to his head without any music; you see him breathe a sigh of relief and you can't help but laugh. You carelessly fling tissue paper from your bag, pulling out what looks like a CD. Jackpot: X&Y by Coldplay; your bipolar friend knows you much too well. He's in what you consider to be your bubble so you lope an arm around him in gratitude, poking his face with a honk. Lispy McNerd-face is stock-still, coughing out a reply and then telling you to get off because you obviously have no idea what personal space is. Tavros hugs a Fiduspawn manual to his chest from his wheelchair.

The last presents remaining that you see are your own. You don't even have to say anything before it's like Christmas up in here. You don't feel the need to elaborate on the gifts you give, but you do anyway. Karkat opens up another gaudy sweater, casually flipping you off. Sollux pulls out a big, fat book on technology that you would get bored after reading two chapters of, but his reaction is all you need to tell how he likes it. The happy little gasp on Tavros's part snaps your head in his direction with a speed you're not familiar with. He's squeezing the life out of a chubby host plush like a preteen girl.

"Thank you so much, Gamzee! I _love _it!" You really wish he would stop being so sincere in his thanks, because you immediately run out of things to say. You're confused again, because how can a sixteen-year-old male react in a way that… was it cute? Hmm, your Tavbro smiling at you through a face full of Fiduspawn: yeah, pretty much anyone would consider that cute. You end up grinning without your remembering it.

"Don't mention it." The words come out as a cross between a mumble and a laugh, but you don't care. You notice the lack of presents on Tav's part and are about to inquire, but he's smirking while he sets down his plush. Digging around in the backpack you don't remember him bringing, he pulls out an old, flaky-looking binder-like thing and drops it in the middle of the four of you. Your bro gets three sets of eyes staring perplexedly at him and doesn't hesitate to explain.

"It's a photo album. I know that this, um, isn't much of a gift for any of you… b-but please bear with me! I-I was thinking that after we're done here, we'll take a picture of ourselves, erm, and we'll s-store it in here. And whenever one of us visits another one our houses, h-he'll take a picture and add it too. And then he'll give it to who he's visiting and it'll start a cycle!" Tavros's stuttering lessens as he becomes more confident with himself. "So when we go to college and stuff we can still mail it to each other and stay friends and always have memories of our fun times together!" His eyes are absolutely shining, and you've never seen him so sure of himself. He's looking at all of you; you know he's just dead set on making your last years the best you've ever had, or at least you think so. You wait for someone else to speak up because your throat feels oddly tight, as if you're holding something in, and it occurs to you that his endeavors are plain touching you. You swallow hard and manage,

"So who's going to keep it first?" Everyone just gives you this blank look, making you feel incredibly stupid as you drag the book over to your stash. You regain your lazy stance, although for some reason it's rather difficult. "Hey, brosephs," You address them casually and chuckle to yourself as they all focus on you as if 'Broseph' has always been their name. "Why don't we go and make some use of that powdery miracle out there? We're only young once, and hey, it's snow, so…" You notice Tav perk up visibly, but your other friends just continue to stare. "…So… I'll just up and get the sleds, and you guys can start the snowball stuff, same as always?"

"That sounds good."

"Thure."

"Why not? It's not like we're going to do anything more productive."

All of you file out into the backyard after putting your winter coats back on and divide into teams, as customary. Sollux volunteers to keep Karkat's snowy rage at bay and the Karkat in question retaliates with something you can't hear. Two old toboggans are unearthed from the shed out back, one red and one blue; the paint has almost completely peeled away, though, and only a few flakes remain on the rickety wood, but you suppose it will have to do. Setting the sleds against the shed, you join Tavros and begin packing snow. Everyone knows the plan: ten snowballs to start, and once the game has begun, more would have to be made; when one team cries uncle everything stops. The rules, you might add, were created by a unanimous decision after Sollux nearly choked on a snowball early in life. You set your supply of snow in Tavros's lap, nodding to him. The two of you, always on a team, have a routine that is almost flawless: you provide the movement, running, dodging, and he who has more strength in his arms throws the snowballs. Your plan works perfectly. As soon as Karkat sort of growls the word 'go,' you're dashing and swerving and Tav is heaving snowballs past Karkat's so-called impenetrable snow fort and straight into Sollux's ever-inviting face. One problem, though, once you have the wheelchair in hand, you can't make anymore snowballs, so you're left frantically dodging Sollux's sudden and seemingly never-ending onslaught until the wheels are jammed with snow. You can't see for all the white on your face, so you finally give in and call it quits. Kar has a rare, triumphant smile on his face as he high fives a laughing Sol, and you think it's a miracle that your friends are having this much fun, plain and simple.

The sun is barely slipping down over the horizon by the time you're heading to the old hill with your sleds, and you wonder where the time has gone. You space out for a moment, feel a hand that you know is yours unconsciously grab onto something for balance as your mind wanders into fuzzy colors and sleepy singing voices of miracles, the kind you know don't exist. It's only when you hear a yelp, slip, and fall flat on your face that you return to reality. The wet has already made a mess of your face paint (which just has not been staying on lately, you recall) and some of it dribbles into your mouth with the snow and everything tastes god-awful as you stand again, spluttering but not that fazed. You realize the yelp came from none other than Tavros, who is currently gawking at you as if you had grown wings with faces on them.

"A-Are you alright, Gamzee?" Achievement unlocked: master of the hurt Bambi look. "You sort of, umm, how do I phrase this… you kind of grabbed onto my wheelchair, and I didn't expect that, so I tried to keep going, and… well… sorry."

"Aww, no, bro!" is your quick reply. "I'm the one who should be apologisin', stoppin' you without giving you a warning as to what I was gonna up and do." He relaxes a little and takes the sled you dropped on the ground, setting it in his lap. The others are yelling at you to hurry up, and you take the handles of his wheelchair and begin pushing him along.

"We're racing," Karkat says bluntly from the back of his and Sollux's sled. "Get over it."

You snort and reach down to muss up his hair, but your hand gets slapped away with stinging force before you can even reach your target. "C'mon, I wasn't gonna say no." Kar says something about 'just in case' before kicking Sollux in the leg.

"Crap—KK, what the heck wath that for?"

"You were laughing at me, you jerk."

"I wathn't laughing; where'd you get that idiotic idea?"

"You laugh silently, and we all know it!"

"I wath _thmiling_, thorry for breaking your no-happineth code."

"YOU WERE LAUGHING WITH YOUR EYES!"

"Alright, guys, break it up!" You do a terrible job of making some sort of hand motion for the word 'stop', and the two of them turn to you, faces pink with cold, anger, and a bit of embarrassment. You set the sled down beside Tavros's wheelchair and make sure it stays still as he slides into it. "Let's just get our race on, 'kay?" Karkles huffs and goes completely silent, readying himself, while your Solbro poises to steer. "See that stump at the bottom? Why don't we race to there?" Your comrades simply nod, most likely engrossed in the finish line.

You sit down behind Tavros, placing your hands on his shoulders for leverage; you notice the world become sharper, notice how Tavros seems to radiate heat, how he just barely tenses up when you apply pressure. You can see his Mohawk through his hat; see how he looks childlike even from the back, almost feminine with long eyelashes; see the little check patterns on his coat. You realize you're actually pretty darn close to the guy, and for some reason your face heats up; since when did you care about invading someone's personal space? You're confused again, frustrated at yourself for having this reaction to something so simple without knowing why. Confused turns to nervous when you begin to comprehend that this isn't normal, but all three bros are urging you to snap out of it and you barely have time to listen when Sollux shouts,

"Get thet… GO!"

Before you're frantically pushing off. It's a rough start, but you scramble with your feet some more and develop a long starting stride that, once completed, puts you neck and neck with the other party. Every time you race you remember just how large this hill is as now flies past your face and you can't see your other friends anymore. You both lean into the wind, simultaneously gaining confidence with your newfound lead. You call to Tavros to turn this way, then that, then there's an obstacle here, so be careful, and the two of you are just so in _sync_ that you slip into the flow of speed and snow and looking over the shoulder of a bro that you can just make out the words that push into your ear from not that far back.

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WATCH OUT!"

He sees them before you do, the slight bumps in the snow after a flat section of the hill you forgot was there. The shape of them, angular and probably rectangular, and the way your sled starts to shudder and swerve can only mean one thing.

Stairs.

Your arch nemeses are dead set on making your holiday as physically painful as possible, you know it. Tavros is yelling for you to stop the sled, and you curse the horrid things before very stupidly slamming your foot down on the corner of one. The momentum makes your foot feel like it's shattering through the heavy soles of your converse and promptly flips your sled over. The world is a spinning blur of white and orange and purple and tan as you tumble down who knows how many steps. You get a brief glimpse of the sky, pale and timid and unsure whether it should snow or not, as you become airborne for a split second, Tav's screams and your own loud curses ringing in your ears.

The fall isn't as painful as you thought it would be, and a final "oomph" is emitted from you or Tavros or both. Your vision slowly rocks itself to rest as you manage a wheezy chuckle.

"I swear… these things are out to get me. Guess I shoulda been more care…fu…" You stop in mid-sentence when you notice some very crucial things about the ground beneath you.

One: it's warm in the winter and not covered in snow.

Two: It's telling you to stop covering its mouth with your arm because it can't breathe.

You're much too frantic as you jerk your arm away from Tavros's face but not prepared enough to get off of him. Instead you just freeze. He's staring at you, bug-eyed, the snow a huge contrast to his black hair and tan complexion. The tips of his ears and his cheeks are tinted bright red, and for just a moment there is eye contact with no sound, save for your friends' shouts and the scuff of feet on snow, muted in your own little world. You feel his knees and shoulders digging into you but don't bother to look because you're afraid that if you move your heart will burst from your chest and smack Tavros in the jaw, not that there'll be much blood; it's all in your face anyway.

"Uhh… G-Gamzee?" He must be uncomfortable, under all the weight of you like that, but it's just beginning to make sense. "Hi… umm… are y-you okay? Your face is… really red… Gamzee?" A revelation hits you and the world has flipped over, exposing its vulnerable underbelly.

Oh, that's right, you finally get it now.

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and you think you are in love.


	7. In which something smells fishy

((Hello again. I'm not sure whether or no this is the shortest time I've taken between posts or not, but I'd like to think I'm improving. On a different note, I'm actually rather disappointed in this chapter. Then again, I intended for chap 7 to be one big filler, which I guess it is. Anyhow, expect several laughs next chapter, but for now have some Eridan. Reviews are always appreciated and encouraged~!

Homestuck and its characters belong to the Huss of Lips, but the humanstuck designs and storyline are my own.))

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><p>As soon as the thought enters your head you're scrambling off him, acting like anything but yourself while he just stares at you like you're high off snow or something. You're mumbling something that sounds like an apology over and over again, while he repeatedly tells you that it's fine and the fall shocked him, too. Thankfully, Karkat and Sollux reach you after your little awkward moment and start blurting out a combination of questions and uncensored scolding. You don't say much after that; the bros in the other sled take theirs and yours and leave you with the task of Tavros. He's already sitting up, saying that he's sorry you have to do this and that maybe he can crawl through the snow. You won't have it, and you hoist your friend up, bridal style, and begin the long trek back up the hill. He thanks you, and through the cacophony of your mind, heart, and combined breathing, you hear yourself say that he's always welcome. Kar and Sol are already at the top of the steep incline and are waving at you, and you crack a smile back, trying to ignore the warmth and the big sad eyes and the way Tav holds onto you like it's the most natural thing in the world.<p>

Once said Tavros is deposited in his seat once more, you let the streetlamps guide the four of you through the five-o-clock twilight and back home. While the trees turn into black, withered hands in the background and everything gains a blue-grey tint, you try to deal with the shock, and it is shock. Why the heck were you trying to push this back? You pass by two teenagers, underage, sharing a cigarette and talking trash about some others at school and they remind you; society is a dark, cold crowd and sometimes you'd rather be uninformed. Your heterochromic pal notices your lack of drawling chatter and turns to you, dragging the blue sled across the asphault.

"Ith there any particular reathon you're not talking, or are you high on life again?" He asks, voice monotone. You quickly and discreetly come back to the real world.

"Oh, no, no, bro. I'm just a little shaky from the whole stair-y thing," you reply, acquiring your trademark dopey grin in an attempt to look more like Gamzee. Sollux just hums in response, and the rest of the trip regains a sort of comfortable silence that calms your spazzing head somewhat. As soon as you enter the house and are ridding yourselves of your snow-drenched outer garments, those of you who can are flopping down on whatever soft surface is available. The one who can't slides down into his wheelchair, puffing out a little sigh. This makes you realize just how tired you all are; you're not full-fledged adults, and things like this can and do wear you out. The silence drags on and you swear you if you could just tell your head to shoosh you would fall asleep right then and there. This won't do at all, so you decide it's time for a good picker-upper, aka a little sugar high. You kind of scoot the munchies you abandoned all those hours ago over to your bros, and they absently pick up what's appealing to them and shove it in their mouths. By the time your first can of Faygo is consumed you can't keep your mind in one place, even on your new idea. So to break your boredom you take your iPod from its place on the countertop and plug it into a speaker that looks a lot sleeker than it actually is. As you set it to shuffle, music that would grate on the eardrums of a sane adult fills the room and your friends snap out of their trances.

You end up submitting to the rowdy dance tune of the music, and everyone but Karkat is making a fool of himself however they can. Even the grumpiest of you ends up giggling like an idiot at the last obscene pun before a stern man in a hybrid is honking at the building, signaling for Kar to get the heck home.

"W-Wait, Karkat! The picture, remember?" Tavros ends up stopping him with his hand on the doorknob before he's retrieving his camera. All of you are hyper enough to smile in some way for the photograph, but you end up being squished together and Tav is barely in his picture before it snaps. The film slips out immediately after and you deposit it in the album before it even develops. Karkat is already outside the door, motioning for Sollux to come along.

"Freeloading again?"

"Nope. Thleepover thith time."

"Take the album then, alright?"

"Sollux, get your behind over here or we're leaving you behind and taking the bumble-bike!"

"Alright, alright! Don't get your pantieth in a twitht, KK."

"You really just went there."

"Agh! D-don't forget the camera!"

Finally, when the ordeal is all over, you're left alone with only Tavbro for company. A song you thought the iPod would avoid, slow and peaceful and frankly a guilty pleasure of yours, starts to play. You're just calming down, as is Tav, so you don't bother to turn it off, but as soon as the chorus begins you remember the incident on the hill. The strangest thoughts enter your head: _huh, this song is really danceable in some weird way. Is Tav falling asleep? No, his eyes are opening. Maybe if he had legs we could dance to—HOLD IT, MAKARA. It's been what? A few hours? You can't think like this. Crap, he's staring at me. Say something; you were fine earlier, you ninny. _

"You bored, Tav?" is the best thing you can think of at the moment. He nods, yawns, his tongue rolling back like a dog's. Slowly he sits back up. "When d'you think your mom'll get here?"

"Soon. Maybe another… fifteen minutes? Umm, actually, I sorta made that up. Sh-Should I call her?" He wheels toward the phone and you don't know why you stop him, but you do.

"Hooold up, broski. You don't want to chill with the Great Gamzee?" He starts giggling and you don't know why, but it just sends him into fits of laughter. You just sort of sit there, puzzled. When he finally regains enough composure to speak, you ask him what exactly was so funny about that.

"It's just… oh gog, ahaha! Sorry, err, I was thinking that it sounded so much like _The Great Gatsby_, and… well, do you get it now?"

"…Nope." You're speaking the truth. The title sounds vaguely familiar, but other than that, you have absolutely no clue.

"Gamzee, we had to read it for school this year!" You did?

"We did?" Your bro sighs, shakes his head. He's disappointed, but not enough that it would worry you. He smiles through a hand on his face, and honest to goodness you have not seen that expression before.

"We had a test over that, Gamzee."

"I was absent."

"Sure. What about the exam?"

"Ohhh, that's what those questions with the people I didn't know were about!"

"Gamzee!"

The laughter dies down, replaced by another stretch of quiet, only this one seems much less comfortable than the prior time. You have two options: say something that's actually intelligent or try to sort out that strange thought (which means talking to yourself with a bro in the room). You go, naturally, with the former.

"Hey." He looks up at you, confused about your lack of miracle-focused babble. "Sorry again for the sledding incident." Then, par for the course, you add, "So not miraculous, crushin' a brother like that." His puzzled expression dissolves, and he smiles right at you.

"You're still thinking about that? I thought you of all people would, umm, forget. N-Not that I expected you too! Or that you're not smart or anything! I mean, it would be nice if you applied yourself more, b-but that goes for a lot of people, and… I'm rambling again, aren't I?" He scratches the back of his head sheepishly, a gesture you recall carrying out on multiple occasions. _Ramble more, please, so I don't have to keep being sensible._

You both fall silent again, and you're searching for words once more. This is highly unusual for you, since normally you just chatter to your heart's content without worrying that you're going to say something stupid; you end up saying something stupid anyway. "So how about those toaste—"

_DING, DONG. _

Saved by the bell. You're the first to open the door to Ms. Nitram, and Tav appears behind you seconds later, waving hi and then bye as the last of your guests leaves the premises. Immediately upon their departure you kick off your shoes and stride to your room, flopping on your bed in your clothes, as usual. A quick glance at the clock indicates that it's only a little before eight and you could stay up for hours more if you want to. You don't want to. You wriggle under the covers and onto your back, pondering what to do. Sleep? Think? You suppose now would be as good a time as any to actually be logical for once in your life. All the thoughts of Tavros that you've tried to keep out since your little epiphany and probably years before come rushing back into your head, and the only things keeping the thoughts from flooding it are your unusual worry and the knowledge that feelings like this are so unlike you. _Okay, get a grip, Makara. You're cool. You don't freak out; you just keep that dopey smile on your face and act chill. _You remember all the times that you wondered what the heck was going on with your head, and you realize that it was just painfully obvious, to the point that every memory that enters your head makes you want to slap yourself for actually being that dense. You decide to list out all the things you know about the guy before doing anything rash.

Let's see. His name is Tavros Nitram, he's human, biologically male and prefers male pronouns, of Hispanic origin (sometimes talking to his mom in rapid-fire Spanish you don't understand even though you take the language), he's confined to a wheelchair, is a great student, a boss on the drums, unconfident, sweet, innocent as a sixteen-year-old can be… You rattle off details in your head, trying to make sense of where the facts end and your personal opinions begin, even as your eyes begin to slip closed. He may not look it, but he's strong, he's been through many hard times, he's been friends with you since age seven, his ears turn red and he fidgets when he's embarrassed, he hates his laugh but it's cute, he absolutely loves fantasy novels, Peter Pan is his role model, the shampoo he uses makes his hair weirdly soft and fluffy…

You're asleep before you have time to wonder what the heck you're thinking.

It's a given that any break from school is always too short. True to form, the days slip by quickly in a haze of surprising normalcy. You begin your cycle of wake up, work, sleep, get up in the middle of the night and philosophize about unimportant issues, and sleep for another few hours. Tavros informs you early on via Pesterchum that he'll be spending the break down in New Mexico at his grandfather's. You call him that night, intending on a short farewell, but then the stories and the jokes and the far-fetched what-ifs slip in and you watch the second, third, fourth, and fifth hours pass without minding. Then the next morning he's on the road with no means of communication with you for the next couple weeks, but you're left with the memory of the longest phone conversation you've had to get you by. Sollux, surprisingly, visits you almost daily, filling that bored gap in between work and sleep and insisting you prepare for the concert, Tav or no Tav. You admit, you're much more focused, but the sound of your guitar comes out almost mechanically; however, Sol (the most emotionless of the group, despite his bipolarity) has the jammy thing down pat. To be honest, you've never seen him this into it. The photo album quickly acquires a section dedicated to photos of the two of you during practice.

You think. Even as the days escape from you faster than you can reach out to catch them, you think. You've unlocked a level of thought you didn't know you had, and it sort of scares you. The whole idea of miracles comes back into play, and the little things become incredible again, not as much as when you were young and naive, but enough for you to notice.

You think about him. Childhood memories invade your head, drowning out the sounds of toddlers wailing about not wanting their food and the sounds of ovens beeping. You remember the old lemonade stand and the food coloring you used to add to it to turn the beverage into a magical potion. You remember the tree house, decrepit now from disuse but at the time of walking and confidence a wonderland and hideaway. You recall that terrifying moment when you were pulled from class to be told that your best friend might not live to see the next day, the look of shock and horror on his face when he tried to walk on the legs that weren't there. The time, months later, when he came home and the two of you cried yourselves to sleep over all of the life suddenly hurled at you. The time when you awoke next to him, kissed the final tear off his cheek, and spent the rest of the night with the covers over your head to hide the burning in your face and the odd combination of excitement and shame in your heart.

You imagine. You keep the memories and the fantasy apart with a figurative steel wall, but otherwise you let your mind go everywhere. You entertain different possibilities, though sometimes they concern you in ways you would normally curse yourself for doing. You leave Pesterchum open and your phone on for no reason in particular, and though you guess you should be disappointed in yourself you can't seem to bring yourself to that. Sometimes your thoughts run wild and you're left with the option of either going around looking like a moron or taking care of the muddle in your head once and for all. Mostly you end up turning on the shower, locking the bathroom door, and later wondering why the water is suddenly so cold or why you're so sleepy.

There's half an inch of snow still on the ground when you're thrown back into the painful routine of waking up at five and trekking to school. You're absurdly early this time, as you either arrive nearly an hour beforehand or halfway through first period regardless. You suppose your morning routine works well enough: waking up in the dark (hopefully) to your alarm, checking to see if your dad is home, which he isn't, getting dressed, and snatching an energy bar on the way out the door. You walk around the building aimlessly, hoping to find your friends but not succeeding. Not even they would get here this early, but it seemssome people have. As you slump against the wall in back of the school, a cloud of cigarette smoke unexpectedly assaults your face. You choke, coughing and spluttering and when you finally catch your breath, you realize that you're leaning against freshly applied spray paint. You look over your shoulder to find one of your better hoodies soiled with brilliant green pigment. Perfect. What a way to start the day. You've completely ruined that person's fine art. Now the sign says something like,

"Doc Scratch can suck my dirb"

What the heck is a dirb? How careless of you. You look to see what caused you to degrade such a deep and powerful message and spot a gathering of students poking fun at others apparently too unattractive or unpopular to share a collective smoke with them. You take in the familiar sights and sounds of high school: the mile-a-minute chatter of freshman girls addressing some new fad, the unavoidable sight of couples two weeks into their relationship and violently making out somewhere they foolishly think is secluded, the constant stream of racist and homophobic slurs (more of the latter than the former for obvious historical reasons); yes, you remember why you dislike school now. You spot the familiar scrawny figure of Sollux locking up the bumble-bike and wave, not caring if you draw attention to the stain on your jacket. He meanders over, and you can hear the techno blaring from his iPod through his earmuffs and various coats: two warm ones to be exact.

His first words to you since arriving at school are, "Jeethuth, Gamthee, how are you not dying of hypothermia right now?" You snicker.

"Why're you asking me, twiggy?"

"Thut up."

"Jeez, how can you hear me through all that—I'm gonna take a wild guess—Deadmau5?"

"Thkrillex."

"Ohh, so close." Techno, dubstep, same difference. Sollux shifts from foot to mismatched foot. "Have a little trouble with shoes today, broski?"

"If you honethtly need to know, yeth, I wath half-athleep, and no, I'm not contherned about the 'mainthtreem' qualitieth of matching thoeth. That'th not my job. Now can we _pleathe_ get inthide? I think my organth are getting frothtbite." You oblige, taking one last look at the ramshackle apartments outside before stepping in the doors to obnoxious crowds and white-washed walls.

Your neighborhood is the one place with rather sizeable houses in a sea of grey, crumbling office buildings, apartments (high-rise or no), and duplexes. You like to entertain the thought that some uninformed person decided to plop the houses down in that spot in a desperate fling for decency, some far-fetched demonstration that the whole family-life education scenarios were dominant here: straight married couple, masculine brother, feminine sister and all. You know for a fact that didn't work. Large house or not, there's still a convenience store and some shady unnamed buildings a mile away. You suppose yours is somehow collectively the biggest and trashiest house of your friends. All in all, compared to Tavros's one-floor and out-of-place stucco home, Sollux's duplex, and Karkat's over-full rented condominium, all the useless space you have just seems lonely. You don't dwell on those mundane and altogether unnecessary details for long, though, because as you shuffle to your locker your nose picks up something rank.

The stench grows stronger as you near your assigned cubicle, which, you have to admit, is odd; although you're in no way neat, this is just unnatural, and you're sure you didn't leave something in there before winter break. Disgusted muttering emanates from the crowds of students a good ten feet away from the locker. You hear a choking sound from your Solbro, and find him with both hands clamped about his nose, looking a little more than green.

"Gog, GZ, what decompothed, for how long, and when are you planning on compothting it?" He hiccups loudly, buries his nose in his shirt, coats, every piece of fresh fabric available, from the looks of it. "Talk about puke-worthy…" The smell is definitely getting to you now, and you try your best to breathe through your mouth, but it's sour to a point where you can taste it on your palette and wow that is vile, and…

Fishy?

Yes, definitely fishy. You sniff the air again, and you are positive someone tried and failed to set up a seafood buffet in your locker. Why, why, why didn't you acquire a lock at the beginning of the year again? Taking a deep breath in preparation and immediately regretting it, you jerk open the locker, half expecting your books and binders to tumble out as always.

But no.

Each material for each class is stacked neatly and precariously on top of one another, and in between one book and the next is exactly one trout. There are trout in your locker. You come back to school, and you are greeted with trout. You can honestly say you did not see that coming. The two of you stare incredulously at the dead fish decorating your storage space, and only notice your two other friends behind you when you hear a loud and nasal curse right in your ear.

"Gamzee."

"Yes, best friend?"

"Those are fish I am seeing, am I correct?"

"Yep."

"Question."

"Ask away."

"WHY THE HELL ARE THERE FISH IN YOUR LOCKER?"

"Beats me."

If you weren't so sleepy, you would probably be seething, but then you hear a worried sound from somewhere near the back of the group and your drowsy anger turns to some weird combination of nervousness and elation. You can't say you forget about the fish (how could you, with that odor?) but the thought is shoved somewhere deep in your mind as you turn to greet Tavros after two weeks away. You never expected to be so tentative, after all the thinking you've done over break, but you are. You still ruffle his hair like before, chuckle while he giggles at the contact, but something is… different. His laughter dies down more quickly than usual, and you snatch your hand away because it seems like if you carry on any longer the kid might break. You're just about to ask why when the slam of a hand on a closed locker next to yours brings your attention to the figure that just doesn't seem to belong.

"So Gam, did you like my little present? Say yes, why don't you?"

Of course. Of course it was him. Before your group, probably trying his hardest to look suave and together is Eridan Ampora. Eridan Kiss-me-I'm-Irish Ampora has literally pulled one of the worst pranks you have ever witnessed. Somewhere deep inside you, there is a part of you that wants him to say something along the lines of "You've just been Eridan'd! Ohohoho!"

But that would just be silly.

You really are not getting a chance to speak today, because immediately Sollux is there, and his eyes are just _blazing_ with anger and you're not sure why until he says,

"Buzz off Ampora! You honethtly think that'th funny?" You keep forgetting that this is Eridan he's talking to.

"Well a course I think it's funny. Why would I have done it if I didn't?"

"Maybe becauthe you're a jerk?"

"Is that the only comeback you've got? I'm surprised, Captor. Besides, this isn't your problem, it's Gam's."

You resurface from the depths of your locker with three fish hanging by their tails. "Where'd you get these?"

"Bought them from one of my dad's workers. They're rainbow trout, if you can't tell. Why?" You seem to be getting his attention, because one ginger eyebrow quirks up and steely blue-grey eyes bore accusingly into yours. But you're fine with eye contact; that doesn't faze you. Apparently it's a problem for your persecutor, because the eyes quickly shift back to the fish in your hand.

"Why'd you put these here?" You're tired, you don't want to be here, and that prank is the last thing you want to have to take care of today. You are able to easily keep your voice lazy and nonchalant, pretty much the whole junior class can tell your mood based on the things you say. Sure enough, fishboy flinches as if you moved to strike him, then adjusts those big, thick framed glasses and scuffs what look like bowling shoes on the floor, making it squeak.

"Do you even know who you're talkin' to?" He suddenly shouts, completely and utterly readable. "This is Eridan Ampora, heir to the Ampora fishin' company. I could go to any college, any time, without debt. I could make you wish you were never conceived."

"Bro, I just up and asked you why you put fish in my locker." The tips of his ears turn red as his hair, followed by a good amount of his freckled face.

"You wanna know why? Well, you creep me the heck out, Makara. Take this as a warnin'. I'm not letting you get away with murder again." Murder? What? Oh, that's right. The most common rumor of them all; on top of the familiar faces you sent to the hospital, you also killed. And killed. And no one could find the bodies. And this guy believes it. You're tempted to start laughing, but once again you can't make a sound before Sollux almost has the guy by the collar.

"Ha ha flipping ha. We're all laughing our rearth off, jutht look at uth. He creepth you out, huh? Well, you thould've planned ahead, becauthe you're cleaning up the meth you made. After thcool. Gamthee'th locker. Be there." He shoves the taller teen away and watches as a backpack is grabbed, a few choice, heavily accented words are delivered to your group, and then he's gone. You turn around to find Tavros and Karkat just silent, Karkat's eyes wide as saucers and his jaw nearly hitting the floor. Tavros is just wiggling in his chair, searching for words, most likely.

He finds them. "Umm… th-there are only a few minutes until class starts, and, erm, the elevators here are a b-bit slow, so… I'll just be going?" He turns to wheel away, but then pauses, looks over his shoulder, and offers you a small smile. "Bye, Gamzee," before rolling away. Maybe it was pity; maybe it was a bro thing you didn't notice until now, but it was something, and for a moment you forget your locker smells like day-old corpse. Karkat finally unlocks his jaw, blinks a few times, and states simply,

"You guys are screwed up."

And just like that he's gone, pretending not to know you in favor of his other life. Sol is the only one left, and you turn to find him tossing trout in a trash bin.

"Hey," You nudge his shoulder, nearly coaxing a slippery fish from his grasp. "Class's gonna start. You're gonna be late."

Before you know it he dumps the last fish into the garbage. "I have I. S. firtht, tho it'th not like the teacher'th gonna care where I am." He shrugs to prove his point. "There. Done. Now I need hand thanitither thtat; thith ith jutht vile." You're left alone, wondering why on Earth you got help, but then deciding not to take it for granted, you trudge, smelly books and all, down the hallway to your first class.

Your first-day-back fatigue returns full force as you enter the mob of misbehaving juniors, too annoyed to join them in their merrymaking. You can feel it in your bones. Today is _not_ going to go well.


	8. In which you get no sleep whatsoever

((Sorry again for the late update time! I was without Word for a few weeks and then without internet for a few more. You can probably see where this is going. This chapter ended up about a thousand words longer than I liked, and for that matter, this fanfic is stretching out longer than I'd planned. At first I thought I'd be halfway here by now, but that idea's a thing of the past. Anyway, reviews are appreciated and encouraged, as always!

Homestuck belongs to the Huss of Lips. The humanstuck designs and story are mine.))

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><p>Frankly, you're surprised you aren't the butt of all jokes by the time you reach fourth period. Yes, everyone has sat a good five feet away from you and your fishy school supplies, but other than that you have encountered no problems so far. You turn in the homework that was completed the last day of winter break (as opposed to what was done at the beginning of class) and proceed to try to communicate with someone. Sollux has moved to another seat at the request of a sensitive stomach and the permission of the teacher, so you're left alone in your own little bubble of space. The day's class is rather uneventful; you sit idly by as the teacher lets the librarian talk a mile a minute about the newest research project you've been assigned. Frankly, you don't know how your teacher handles it; usually he's all for completing one task and moving on as soon as possible, either out of trying to be efficient with class time or out of general zeal. But whenever the librarian comes in to speak, she normally takes the entire period going on about the correct way to internally site, which resources are the most reliable, et cetera, and he just lets her. This annoys about two or three students in your class, but the rest of you can't care less.<p>

"I know this is the first day back, you're bored, you don't want to be here in general, and you don't see how this will be useful later on," she starts, hitting every emotion you're experiencing at the moment, "but believe it or not, this is crucial information." The 'crucial information' lasts until about fifteen minutes before you have to leave, and the rest of that time is spent assigning topics. You pull the theology of ancient Egypt out of an old felt hat apparently given to the teacher as a gift from some parent or another. After acquiring your burden, you look over to where your Tavbro is sitting. You must look like some sort of creep, you're sure of it. You recall that the odd contrast of amber eyes and coffee-colored skin under clown makeup tends to scare whoever you look at. Thank whoever that he doesn't notice you. You spot those disproportionally broad shoulders shaking in silent laughter at some request his friend, a girl by the name of Jade, gave him. He digs a rubber band from his pocket, aiming it at something you don't care to trace, but then there's a muffled yelp and the things flies across the room, bounces off some ivory statue of an ancient canine, and hits the teacher squarely in the chest. Tavros is the only one that gets a talking to today, simply because Jade's narcolepsy has kicked in at just the right time.

Sadly, that becomes the only bit of excitement for the rest of the school day. After lunch and some other class you don't care about, you fumble for words in Spanish 3, trying not to remember that one of your friends is fluent in the language and is sitting diagonally from you. Tav apologizes for no reason and you tell him not to sweat it, as usual. By the time last period comes around you are just ready for the day to be over; that said, you sleep through your entire study hall, since you know there's still more work to be done after school, work like un-fishing your locker. You stumble drowsily through the halls and to your destination after the bell rings, mumbling a hello to your bros and Eridan. There's a ring of cleaning supplies all around your locker, and Karkat's yellow gloves nearly reach his elbows and slip off his hands.

"Wow Kar, you have, like, lady hands or somethin'. I mean god, they are tiny."

"Eridan, for the love of all things holy, would you just shut up about my hands?"

"Fine, fine."

There aren't many more words exchanged after that, as most if not all of you are too tired to start an intelligent conversation. Books and piles of paper are discarded from your locker, and in their places go cleaning wipes, sponges, and a whole lot of air freshener. At one point, the fumes get to Sollux a little too much, because he just starts sneezing and doesn't stop until Eridan escorts him from the premise, most likely because he doesn't want to keep cleaning. When the last books are put back in place, smelling almost new again, and the papers are somewhat sorted per Karkat's request, the five of you step back to admire your handiwork. You wish you could wipe your hand on your brow, but that would smear even more of your intricately applied face paint, and everyone knows you'd never want to do that if you don't have to. So you decide to continue perspiring and hope you don't smell too bad.

"See? That wasn't so bad… at least, I don't think it was," Tavbro is the first to speak after your rather awkward, post-work silence.

"Not so bad?" Immediately Eridan begins to complain. "Not so bad my foot. Did you really think it was necessary to keep me after for this?"

"You really jutht went there, Ampora? Lithen, let me jutht remind you that you were the one who thtarted thith, tho you had to help uth. I don't care how thcrewed up your definition of fair ith."

"My definition a fair is not screwed up! Let me just remind you that—"

_Click._

The sound echoes through the empty hallways, and before any of you have the chance to inquire, the lights flicker off around you. Your gaze trains on the clock on the wall. Something inside you falls to your feet as you read exactly 4:30—the time when your school locks its doors.

"Guys?" Your voice comes out pitifully soft from underuse, but the others hear it anyway. They turn to you in simultaneous, wide-eyed confusion. "I think we might be locked in…"

There's a mad dash for any door as soon as the words leave your mouth. You assault the main entrance, the side doors, the windows, all locked. Try as you might, they just won't give. Somehow you gather where you previously were, slumping against whatever flat surfaces you can find. Welp. So much for getting home today. With your luck, your old man might actually be at the house; with your luck, he might actually care that you're gone.

"This sucks balls," are the first words out of your mouth as you take in the faces of those locked in with you. As you scan the crowd you only pick up frustration and worry, which comes as no surprise. Those of you that actually try, who amount to pretty much everyone but you, inevitably have homework they need to take care of and no place to do it. The commotion picks up as soon as you force out the words, "That's it: we're stuck here tonight."

"W-What? This is outrageous! Th-There's no w-way I'm stayin' here w-with all a you!" Those were words you did not need to hear. You look over at the person that uttered them and saw Eridan twisting and turning in place, trying to find the slightest hint of a way out. He must me much more distressed than you are, because in all the few years you've known him you have never heard him stutter.

"Oh, no, your thpeech impediment ith thowing, I'm tho thorry for you," Sollux snaps back just after Eridan finishes his complaint.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you for all a the spit flyin' everywhere. Learn to control yourself at least! That's disgusting."

"Oh, I'm thorry. Doeth my lithp make you uncomfortable? Doeth it _dithturb _you, ED?"

"WOULD YOU ALL JUST SHUT UP!"

Another head turn in unison brings your attention to Karkat, fuming, in the middle of the hallway. Leave it to sticky situations to bring out that kid's inner leader, which, in this case, took the form of a speck of a teenager, red-faced and shaking with all the god-awful things that he's undoubtedly trying to keep himself from saying.

"HOW MUCH DOES IT TAKE TO GET YOOU GUYS TO, I DON'T KNOW, STOP ACTING LIKE A PACK OF PATHETIC FREAKING MORONS? LISTEN, LET ME JUST CLARIFY THE SITUATION FOR YOU—"

"Tone it down, a little, brotha. We can all hear you just fine."

"Let me just clarify the situation for you imbeciles. The five of us are stuck in this hellhole until morning. And somehow you translate that into 'let's run around and scream like chickens with their heads cut off!' –which isn't even a thing a chicken can do, but I'll credit whoever created that illogical analogy anyway— but SERIOUSLY. Ever heard of common sense? Anyone? The light switches still work, we can still get homework done; what are you even worried about?"

"Eating."

"Sleeping."

"KK'th right," Sollux eventually pipes up. "We may be a bit hungry, but I'm thure there'll be roomth with coucheth or thomething. Bethideth, thith might be fun. You know the old bathement? I vote we check that out. After we get whatever homework we can out of the way, of courthe." This earns a groan from you, but everyone else seems okay with the plan.

The next couple of hours are spent in near silence while you find the lights (since, of course, you have no desire to actually do the homework given to you) and the others finish their assignments. Sitting in the middle of the pack of bored teenagers, you begin to notice something strange. Tavros hasn't talked to you or for that matter anyone much at all since school let out. You spot him in his wheelchair with his back turned to the group, silently reading a book you (for once) know wasn't assigned for school. He's curled into himself, trying to look as small as possible, and his eyes, when you come over to investigate, seem much more tired and much less innocent than you're used to. Hesitantly, you poke him on the shoulder, and the guy nearly jumps out of his skin; the wheelchair protests with a violent squeak while he rolls backward without intending to. The others look up once, disinterested by their appearance, and return to their studies. In your Solbro's case, he goes back to meticulously correcting Eridan's Latin translation, while said Eridan tries to snatch his paper back, making stereotypical and rather offensive remarks about Sollux's brains.

"Gamzee!" Tav's words come out in a hushed whisper. "Y-you scared me half to death!"

Your hand seems to have taken a permanent residence behind your head as you reply, "Sorry, bro. I guess I just wanted to up and find out what was wrong with a brother, you know?" Tavros's gaze softens, and there's just this maturity in it that you haven't seen before, and for some reason you simultaneously want more of it and want to never see it again.

"Umm, thanks, I guess… I just…" He doesn't meet your eyes when you nudge him to keep him talking. "It's something that I kinda don't want to talk about right now, you know?" You don't know. You were never one of those I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it types; yes, you would say things were fine, keep up a façade and have people believe that you were honestly that apathetic. Otherwise you would just rant about whatever, not caring how obtrusive you were being. It takes a bit of actual thought to grasp the concept that Tav might not want to rant right now.

With this thought in place, you back off. "Sure, sure. If a bro wants his space, a bro wants his space." You step slowly away and turn to rejoin the others in their little boring pile, trying not to let a thing as small as Tavros being in a bad mood worry you as much as it does. You spot a scrawny figure scooting towards you, and wave a quick hello to Sollux again.

"Hey. You done with your homework?" He asks as soon as he's settled beside you. You shake your head, as always.

"Nope, but I don't really feel up to it anyway." Sollux hits his head against those knobby knees of his and makes some exasperated noise. "Hey, unlike some people, I don't really like doin' this problem an' that for teachers that'll just be nitpicky about it."

"You actually think I like doing homework? Wow, and I thought you knew me." You give him a halfhearted punch on the shoulder in response. "If I were at home, I'd much rather be programming—don't give me that look—or mething around with Minecraft." He turns to you, smirks, his hand covering his mouth. "How about thith? When the otherth are done doing whatever they're doing, why don't we all go to the bathement, like I thaid? I bet there'll be more interethting thingth there than there are here." You peer out the window; the sky is absolutely pitch black outside and no particular shapes can be discerned, no trees, no cars, nothing. Perfect. At that time, Karkat slams his books down, the sound echoing through the empty halls.

"FINALLY. IT IS DONE." He jumps to his feet, and you pick up an eagerness to explore you never would have expected from him. Eridan follows soon after, and before you have the time to look, the five of you are heading towards the dingy, tens of years old stairs that lead down to dark abyss. You realize that Tav's wheelchair won't be able to travel down those stairs, and your stomach does a little summersault when you realize you're going to have to carry him again. You kneel in front of him, hands extended behind your back.

"Ready, Tav?" He gulps, makes a little affirmative sound, and you've grasped him by the remainders of his legs and are hoisting him up. Sollux had conveniently forgotten to remove a flashlight from his backpack, so you at least have a rather strong LED beam to guide you through the unknown. Smirking, he hands it to Eridan, saying something about trusting him not to lose that thing, and Eridan takes a dramatic oath that he'll guard it with his life. You head down the stairs, the last of the group as you have more of a load on you. Tavros shifts, tightening his grip on you and you have to try harder than usual to keep your mind focused on one thing. Every step creaks as you descend, the beam revealing stacks of old crates, mysterious lumps under yellowing tarp, puddles of damp from the ceiling. In retrospect you would have said it was nothing special, but here and now, taking in the musty smell of the place and not knowing what or who would be beyond the circle of light, you begin to feel a bit more than nervous. Your friends' actions reflect your emotions at the moment; every movement is hesitant and small, no words are exchanged, and whatever breaks the silence comes in the form of a hissing whisper to another bro.

"Let's leave a mark by the stairs."

"What kind?"

"I don't know, something bright, I guess."

"I got spraypaint."

"Really, Gamzee?"

"Yup." With that, you turn the railing of the stairs bright orange and set the small paint can down beside it. "Alright, broskis," you address said broskis. "Let's get our exploration on."

The tiptoeing around part of the exploration isn't very exciting, considering the smallest of you is only willing to get into certain corners, and anything he claims is 'ice cold' is out. It's mostly old books and desks, limp with age and wetness, crates of what seem to be more books, and then those odd tarp-covered things. There aren't that many of them, but all of you decide to pick your way around them nonetheless. Tavros's grip tightens around you as you near one of them, and you feel his face hide in your neck.

"G-Gamzee, I don't think I want t-to stay here… umm, much longer…" The words are right in your ear, and for an instant you forget your situation and the fact that Tavros is just scared, just scared and nothing more. You start, finally, to reply to him when Eridan gets your attention.

"Gam, hey Gam." You find him grinning devilishly with his flashlight trained on one of the tarps. "I have a dare for you. Want to hear?" Oh, you see what he's after. He probably wants you to do something he's too afraid to do, which is fine. The tarps don't scare you as much as they do the others, but with your lazy demeanor, it's a given.

"Sure, bro, lay it on me," you respond, cracking your knuckles simply because you felt they needed cracking. This earns a wider grin from fishboy.

"I dare you to pull off the tarp and let us all see what's under it," he says, haughtily as anyone could with that British-Irish accent of his. "You have to stay near the thing until I say when, got it? Tav, this means you, too." Got it. You amble, casually as possible with a shivering friend on your back, over to the tarp, and you grasp the fabric with a hand you free up. You look back at Eridan when he clears his throat conspicuously, trying to ignore that the tarp is wet and absolutely freezing under your hand. "Oh, Gam, I forgot to mention something." Great. Just great. A little detail this late in the game could make a major difference and yet he goes on. "Did I tell you that there's a good chance that the basement is haunted? No? Well, there is, just so you know." The tarp under your hands suddenly feels even colder, and Tav's hands clench in the fabric of your hoodie, but you can't stop now. A bro doesn't turn down another bro's dares without good reason. Drawing a deep breath, full of damp, you fling off the fabric but don't get to see what's under it because the room suddenly goes dark and Eridan just screams. You're twisting in place, throwing the tarp from your hands as if it would eat you alive as the rest of your group turns into a gasping mess.

"Eridan, what the hell was that?" Karkat's voice pierces the darkness with a mix of a screech and a whisper. "Answer me, dammit!"

"S-sorry, sorry!" Eridan's composure is completely gone, and it's evident in his tone. "I-I dropped the flashlight and it might've broke. It's s-somewhere by my feet, I think, but that isn't the problem! Something breathed on me. On my neck, and it w-was cold!" What's cold now is your blood as you all stand stock still. That is, you do until Eridan lets loose another cry, and honest to goodness it is one of the most animal things you have ever heard. "Oh god, it's touching me! It's touching—help; please help! It's like running its hands around me and—NONONO THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENNING. I AM NOT BEING GROPED BY A GHOST. Oh my flippin' god, no, no, no…" Tavros has a physical hold on you that is literally hurting you with its strength, and you are clutching him right back. You have no trouble admitting to being scared out of your wits right now, because… what's this? Through the darkness, behind Eridan's silhouette, you can barely make out the glint of oval glasses. Oh, that sly dog. But then, as soon as you relax, a tarp throws itself off its designated object of its own accord and the next thing you know, Karkat has the flashlight, and you're all dashing as fast as you can go back up the stairs and into the artificial light. You grab Tavros's wheelchair, plop him in it, and keep running, past countless empty rooms until you reach your stuff and plant yourselves down. Then safely away from your own fear, the five of you collapse into a giddy, panting huddle. Within the pile of teenagers, you find Sollux and discreetly fist-bump him in congratulation for scaring the rest of you spitless. You find Eridan hurriedly wiping tears from his face, and Sol nods at you to tell him.

You plop a hand down on his shoulder and say, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I hate to break it to you, man, but that ghost you were talking about? Yeah, that was Sollux over there. You were pranked, broseph." Eridan's face flushes red in record time, and he points a free finger at his oppressor, wiping his eyes even more frantically.

"You ! I s-should've known!" He most likely tried to shout the words, but they come out as a rasping squeak that makes you feel even worse for the guy. "Did you r-really think that w-was funny? Huh?"

Sollux's eyebrow twitches, a sign that his nonchalance was a show, at least this time. "Well yeah, I kind of did, at leatht until the real poltergeitht thowed up or whatever. Then I wath pretty freaked."

"YOU GOOSED ME! TWICE!"

"Oh, I did? Thorry about that. I couldn't thee where my handth were going, no thankth to you."

"You're awful!"

"You're welcome." The five of you stay in your little huddle, too scrambled to be embarrassed by how close you all are to each other. You realize you're sandwiched in by a wheelchair-free Tavros and Karkat, the former acquiring more of your attention, but you don't do anything. You just let Tav be close to you as your collective breathing slows, and you hope that he can't feel your heartbeat. Eridan, who had been sulking away from the group, now crawls over and joins the pile, squishing himself against Sollux, who groans audibly at the concept.

"You pranked me, an' you can't stand me, so my strategy's to get close to you as possible for pure annoyance."

"Eridan, if you were ath clothe to me ath pothible, you would literally be inthide my—"

"You know what I meant! You guys can be so… disturbin' at times!"

"Guilty as charged," is the only thing you feel like saying in response. You're much too comfortable here, surrounded by body heat, to care about much of anything anymore, until Eridan pipes up with,

"Let's tell secrets!"

Oh, joy. The beauty of spilling your heart out to the world, the raw emotion, the poetic power. Let's see, no thanks. Normally you're all over talking, but when it means someone who doesn't trust you gets the power to open up a wound you thought you'd gotten over at any time, you'd rather do something else. You're about to say something against it, when your friends get vocal.

"Thure. Why not? It'th not ath if I've got anything to lothe."

"We've already screamed like girls and ran like pansies. Why not? Go for it."

"A-As long as we keep each other's secrets, I'm okay with it…"

Really, and you thought you could win this one. Eridan swears he'll keep every secret (raising his right hand, the whole nine), and you grudgingly accept, sitting up to open up. Everyone is still in that odd little squished line, so you form a small circle.

"Now, let's see here, what time is it? Ten twenty-five? Not late at all. Let's go until about midnight, and then we'll look for a place to sleep. How about it?" Eridan is clearly eager, as he goes on and on in semi-pointless babble. "What topic should be addressed first? Let's just do random trivia stuff before we get into more… juicy topics." He chuckles, then, and you can see how he can look threatening if he wants to. "I'll start: I knit all my own scarves. Moving on!"

"That wasn't a secret at all, fishdick!" Karkat is jabbing a finger into one of those hand-knit scarves as soon as you have a chance to look over.

"Of course it was. I never told anyone but you, didn't I? It counts." He turns to Sollux, gesturing for him to have a go.

"Okay. Let'th thee… I uthed to thpeak two languageth." He reclines where he sits, a grin pulling at his features. You search your brain, wondering what other language he could have possibly spoken.

Eridan immediately takes a guess. "What, was it Chinese or somethin' like that?"

"Of courthe not!" Sollux barks back. "Neither of my parentth are even from China, dripwad."

"Then where…"

"Thouth Korea and the U. S. of A."

"I see. Now what was that language again?"

Sollux looks about the room, scanning your faces. You can assume that he's picked up your puzzled expression through your face paint, since his grin grows as he raises a finger and states, "Twinthpeak." He's a twin?

"You're a twin?" The question comes out before you can stop it, but you see no point in apologizing. Sollux shakes his head, however, which leaves you in a deeper state of confusion.

"I wath for about a year. Got pretty fluent in the dialect of identical twinth." He checks for dirt under his nails, most likely infuriating the lot of you with his nonchalance.

"What… what happened to the other one?" Tav's voice is soft beside you, the new distance making it a bit hard to hear.

"He wathn't throng enough. He had thome problemth with hith lungth, apparently. Didn't thpeak English till I wath about two. The folkth never told me hith name. I think that'th what thtarted the fighting, to be honetht." A solemn look is exchanged by virtually every member of the party, save for Eridan, who is pretty much in the dark about all of your families' situations. When Sollux has indicated that he's done speaking, the collective stare turns to Karkat, who looks everywhere but at you guys before speaking.

"You want to hear something juicy? Well, don't get your hopes up because this'll never come true: my sister ships me—me who is a year taken—with Sollux, Gamzee, and Eridan." None of you are surprised. Nepeta has been known for pairing her brother with the most outrageous of people to simply annoy him. These actually make some sort of sense this time, so the only reaction you get is a 'moving on' from Sollux and you're put in the spotlight.

As you become the temporary center of attention, your mind goes blank at speeds it only reaches when you're taking a test. Secrets… secrets… Tavros nudges you to speak and you remember one, but it certainly isn't what you want to say. Crud. Now that one little bit of information you acquired at the bottom of the hill in back of your house is the only thing that's filling your head. _Look, it's cool. You're cool. You're the chillest brother a brother could want. You got time to say all kinds of things that're all sappy and stuff, and you don't have to say anything now. It's cool… it's cool…_ You catch Eridan staring at you expectantly, a dark glint in those blue-grey eyes, and you know exactly what he wants you to say. You open your mouth to speak, and he quivers in place, awaiting the inevitable.

"No one died when I went nuts. A couple kids got hurt, but no one kicked the bucket." Eridan's face doesn't change, save for a new crease in between his thick eyebrows.

"So the rumors…" he starts, but you don't have time for it.

"Not true. You want to hear the whole story?" You're not angry, actually, as you get asked a million or so questions a day about the two-years-new topic of your bout of insanity. By now it's an old conversational topic to you, but not to anyone else. Just like all the others, Eridan avoids the real question like a cat avoids water. "Strider got onto a topic he shouldn't have, shook the ol' foundation a little, got me mad. Dad got me madder, not being there for more than a week's time. An empty pill container got me unstable. At some point in my life I died in my sleep and became the Hulk. Guess it took a few fights, a few memories, and a few tricky people to get me angry, and you don't like me when I'm angry, 'cause it lets the monster out." The hall is silent save for a few coughs on Eridan's part.

"Alright!" Karkat slaps his knee and turns to you. "Now that this wonderful little info-fest is over, how bout we drag our rears somewhere where we can—"

"He's sick." The voice barely catches the group's attention, and you turn to the figure in the corner, out of his wheelchair, leaning on the wall, pale to the point where he might be ill.

"What's that, Tav?" Your voice seems soft as his as you scoot over to him as much as he allows.

"A brain tumor. Grandpa has one, and it's cancerous. If he lives through surgery he'll be paralyzed from here down." He gestures to his waist and lets his hands drift down his legs, past the stubs to where they should have ended. After that he's silent, and the tiredness in his eyes suddenly makes sense. No one knows what exactly to say, since it's not a secret so much as an announcement that takes you all off guard. Eridan starts apologizing, over and over and over, as if he's that rich aunt that had never seen illness or death, never knew the feelings that come with it. Sollux is silent, nods twice, slouches his shoulders and sits right where he is, respectfully. All Karkat can seem to manage is,

"Crap sucks."

Self control for you seems to be a thing of the past, because your arms are around him before you can stop them. You must look strange, like some teenage sister consoling her sibling about a bad breakup, obtrusive and unneeded, but you've always been physical. Why worry about it now? Because he might take a hint, that's why. But he hugs you right back, still saying nothing. Sollux manages to clear his throat and tap his foot on the floor while the whole ordeal takes place. After a few more seconds he stands up dramatically.

"Well! If time and thpace have meaning to you two, we'll be in the drama room finding a couch or thomething." A pause. "Don't give me that. You have ath much of a clue what to do ath I do, which ithn't much at all. Thee you later."

You hope to something, anything, that this helps, that it's not just one of those pity parties you've gotten over experiences of yours that never did any good. The words come out as a whisper, since—you shouldn't be acting like this, you really shouldn't—your voice catches in your throat not because you're emotional but because he's letting you get so close.

"It's the one with all the animals?" He nods, as you expect him to. The other grandfather cut ties after the accident; he's told you a thousand times.

"We'll have something in common now," he half-squeaks. You've met his grandfather before, years ago when you were foolish and he still could visit. Only in his early seventies, he was the essence of confidence back then. Rowdy with a dislike for authority with views you sympathized with, he and your gramps were polar opposites. But then again, it was easy to be opposites with a sex offender with a knack for hard drugs who—thank goodness for you—has a future in prison. "He doesn't like it at all. Someone who survived a war and a few tigers shouldn't be beaten by something like this, he says."

"He still a zookeeper?"

"Retired, finally. His pets keep him thinking he's still on the job." The two of you laugh, but there's no feeling in it. You shouldn't feel as if you know him, the man who would sit you down on his knee on each few-and far-between visit, saying that if there'd been a cavalry instead of a flight unit on the German front, he would've been part of it. Your grip on him tightens as the hallway lights go off, courtesy of Sollux, no doubt, but you don't care. Between having Tavros holding you and you holding him, and the fact that the man who gave Tavros his knack with critters may very well be taking his last breaths, you find the excuse to stay as you are a few more minutes. Then, as if on cue, you break away, bring over Tav's wheelchair, and deposit him in it. You almost miss the word, "Thanks," as the two of you wheel, school supplies in hand, towards the light emanating from the drama room, not daring to think about what tomorrow might bring.


	9. In which you hatch a plan

((Okay! So! Since I've lacked internet forn a while, I've been able to write more and upload faster. This will probably be the fastest update in a while, maybe ever. I've been told that my last chapter was a bit rushed, so I hope I've corrected that at least some in this one. As always, reviews are appreciated and encouraged!

Homestuck and its characters belong to the Huss of Lips, but the story and human versions are mine.))

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><p>You wake up on the floor at five thirty again, nearly under the couch Tavros is sleeping in, with a healthy case of morning wood. Normally that wouldn't be any cause for alarm, as you and half the world's population share the same situation; you would wait it off or just take care of it right then (normally on a weekend, when you had the time to do laundry), but with all your bros in the room you would be embarrassing yourself either way, not to mention being clearly indecent if you chose the second option. You decide to abide by social standards and stand up, stretching at full mast and hoping no one's awake yet. You make your way indifferently to the bathroom, blaming your state on your somewhat urgent need to relieve yourself. After, grateful your hypothesis was correct, you wash up in the sink to wake up, ridding yourself of your old face paint and applying new paint with the kit in your pocket. How unspeakably manly: Gamzee Makara putting on makeup in the bathroom mirror. You feel more socially acceptable already. Another stretch. A wide-mouthed yawn that makes your voice crack and a shudder run through you, and you're heading back. The doors open at six fifteen, Karkat said. Six fifteen, and you'll most likely be interrogated once exposed to school life once again. Would you have to hide yourselves? Would the teachers suspect delinquency? Obviously: you know how adults are; but where would Tavros hide?<p>

Tavros.

Hasn't the kid had enough of life already? His father, his legs, his confidence, all gone in that one terrifying, excruciating moment when you don't know what's up or down or where the world is anymore, swept away by the wind with the smoke and the smells of burning rubber and flesh. And now his grandfather, his idol, may be lost as well; or at the very least, his mobility would be lost, just like Tavros's. How ironic. You wish, for once, that you had a mop in your hand and money in your pocket. Your foot slides on something as you meander down the halls, and you land with an 'oomf' on the cold tile. You blindly search for your attacker, your hand closing on something shiny and silver. Twenty-five cents. Wisconsin. Nineteen ninety-six. This thing was just waiting for you like that, wanting with all of its metallic heart for you to find it and keep it safe? Miracles, plain and simple. Pocketing the benevolent soul, you collect yourself and return to your bros.

They're scattered about the room, surrounded by various cushions, lying at haphazard angles at various stages of closeness. It's a heartwarming sight, it really is, and you wish you could be there with them, partaking in the sleepy comfort and the not caring if someone is snuggled against you because you're all bros, why should you care? You snort as you catch sight of Sollux and Eridan, a pile in their own respects, Eridan stretched across Sollux's stomach, lying perpendicular to the nerd. Karkat stirs beside you, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, rolling over a few times before heading to the restrooms like you did. You back away immediately, giving him about three feet of room. A fun fact about Karkat Vantas: he is in _no way _a morning person. The last time you asked him what was wrong in the morning he screamed at you to stop staring at him and leave him alone and didn't speak to you for the rest of the day. Then again, that was in ninth grade, and he barely talked to anyone then, much less people he disliked. According to him they were as good as dead and not worth a second of his time at any point in the day.

Apparently the sounds of Kar storming off wake the little mermaid, and he groggily opens his eyes and feels around for his whereabouts, in the process making Sol bolt awake with some inhuman sound, like some dying animal's last breath or a custom ringtone. For a moment there's eye contact, then a collective stare at Eridan's hand, and then Sollux is literally shoving Eridan off him and onto the stage.

"I didn't know what I was doin' I swear!"

"The problem wath that you were on me in the firtht plathe!"

"What can I say? You radiate heat!"

"Nithe to know. Thuggethtion: never try anything like that again. Ever."

"You're sayin' that as if I wasn't plannin' on heedin' your warnings!"

The two glare at each other for a full minute before Eridan is the third person to storm to the latrines. You turn to Sollux to ask, but his eyes are already on you. They still freak you out; ever since you met him, the contrast between them unnerved you, like you were looking at a different person if you trained on one eye or another. One seems… happier, warmer, the other colder and more distant. He's got them both focused on you, more specifically, a spot below your chin, maybe your Adam's apple, always prominent with a mind of its own. They're cool, and they suit him, calculating and detached, but they stare right through you sometimes.

"What?" He says it first, like it was you being wacky.

"What'd Eridan up and do?" You have to ask; you couldn't get a clear view of the situation. Sol slumps, brushing back short bangs with long fingers.

"He got me back."

The day unfolds like it always does. Teachers pour in at the crack of dawn o'clock, leaving you to hurriedly wake Tavros and drag him to the bathrooms again. By the time the coast is clear enough for you to step outside a few students have already entered the stalls, which begin to smell like smoke and haze. You gather your things like you normally do, reaching your now clean locker and retrieving all you need for your first classes. Karkat enters his other world, heading to a place where he's not an outcast, while you march with Sollux and Tavros through the hallways ignoring all the eyes that are already on you. Except the routine has one thing amiss in it, and that one thing is dashing after you, impossible not to see with that shock of purple hair.

"Guys, wait! I was thinkin' that maybe I could, you know, hang around some more? You're actually pretty cool, and I think we had some essential bondin' time last night—wait, that didn't come out right at all…" Eridan is pressing his index fingers together when you look back, freckled face slightly pink. You're about to say why not? You probably won't be that close, but if a brother's taking a liking to you—

"NO." Sollux doesn't even look back, but the force in his voice convinces Eridan that Sol's ideas are worthwhile. "Don't even try."

"And there you go again, assumin' that you're always included in anyone's conversations. News flash, Captor, I've had enough a you for one lifetime." You can't find his face in time to read his expression, but his tone, like Sollux's, is enough to decipher him completely. He whirls around and strides off without another word, trailing his scarf behind him. Your bipolar bro's face remains completely neutral, but both you and Tavros look back. Ampora seems to have disappeared behind the corner, but the violent stomp of his heavy shoes gives away his position.

"Not to be rude…" Tav starts, tugging at Sollux's shirt from his chair, "But wasn't that a bit much? He seemed pretty, umm, hurt by your suggestions." He's right, one hundred percent. Sollux, however, brushes him off with a snort.

"He'll be back, he alwayth will. If it'th not me, he'll jutht go and annoy FF. The'th more tolerant than I am, anyway. He'th weak; he'th gonna cling to thomeone one way or another." Tavros frowns; get's his friend's attention once again.

"Err, sorry again, but maybe… maybe the only reason he's weak and needs others is because, c-correct me if I'm wrong, that way he won't be so lonely." You can't help but look back again, to the place Eridan was, maybe where he'll turn up again, and wonder if he has anyone to talk to other than himself, and if those scathing words were really meant for others.

You snatch a honey bun from the vending machine in the few minutes before gym, thanking the janitors for unlocking the gates to sweet, sweet sustenance. Realizing you have no gym clothes, you have to walk around the school and receive a zero for the day. Good morning, Mr. Makara. How may we ruin your day? Things are more eventful than yesterday, not counting your adventure, but everything seems to be going the opposite of the way you want. You can barely stomach your Algebra 2 grades you collect, even though you normally don't care; these are just sickeningly low to anyone. You spend third period fumbling through physics formulas that you can't even wrap your head around, and your ancient history experience is composed of noodling around on the web in the library and pretending to research Egyptian gods and goddesses. You get discovered twice and wind up kicked off and sentenced to scouring books, aka instant snooze fest. That is, until the sensation of someone sniffing your hair returns you to reality from a colorful daydream.

"Hey, Terezi. How can I help a sister?" You address her, trying not to sound as if it startled you, which it didn't, definitely not. You turn around and whack your nose on her cane, sending you falling all over your books. This spawns a fit of cackling from her, full-hearted and unafraid; you've always been fond of her laugh, even when it earns her a shoosh from the librarian. "You get kicked off the computers too?"

Another laugh. "Sure, like I'd get kicked off something I can't read." Oh. Oops. You try to remedy it with something completely unrelated.

"Do I at least smell nice?" She screws up her face.

"Like day-old grape jelly sandwiches and sweat." Nope. Not what you wanted to hear at all. "But if you find that appealing than I can't make any insults, I guess. Find any books in Braille?"

"None that I could tell, sis."

"Dang." She snaps her finger and shouts into the air, "Hey, miss librarian, got anything in Braille?"

"I'll tell you if you'd just quiet down!" She barks, and Terezi makes a motion of zipping her lips, locking them, and stuffing the key in her boot. She maneuvers her cane, walking with it swinging out in front of her, until it hits wood.

"I assume this obstacle here is the front desk?"

"It is. Follow me." An awkward silence. "I'll guide you, then." You're pretty sure she's glad to be free of you. You don't exactly attract positive attention, and since your little incident years ago it seems that she's not the only one who can't get over it. It's not that you haven't noticed the staring or the muttering; you've just shut it out of your mind until now. You don't worry, though, since this noticing never lasts long, and soon you'll revert back to your state of content nonchalance. You risk nothing by looking back at Terezi, hunched over a reference book with her fingers scouring it. Something's amiss, and you don't know how you know it, but you do, somehow, some way. She buries her head in her hands, shaking it from side to side, dark, curly hair following her every movement. You don't suppose it's your place to ask someone who's wary around you what's wrong, but before you can make a decision the bell gives an obnoxious ring and you're free to lunch.

You meet your friends in the same corner where you had set up camp the night before. You glance around and detect no sign of Karkat, but that's a given. He's either late or not there, gone in favor of that other world where he's accepted. You save your place and spend the rest of your money on cafeteria food, the look of the so-called beanie weenies prompting an ironic pain that sends you limping back to the bench on which you were previously sitting. You force down the first bite, grinning like a soldier who smiles through a gunshot to Tavros, who, by 'coincidence' is sitting beside you. He seems to have regained at least some of his energy and optimism as he grins right back, playfully shoving you on the shoulder. You shove right back, and the two of you nearly drop your food play fighting while Sollux tries and fails to break it up until a commotion makes you all freeze where you are.

"For the last time, would you tell me what brought this on?" The voice carries with a livid determination that could only belong to Karkat.

"Listen, I don't know either, but they've made up their mind and I've got to listen to them!" You heard her only last period. Terezi. It's a fight, no doubt, and a serious one, but you can't decipher what it's about.

"What, exactly, is the major malfunction that has them talking nonsense?" His voice is scathing, a tone you've never heard him adopt when talking to her. Then again, this is nowhere near talking. "Answer me! Tell me what's wrong with me!"

"Your temper, for one!"

"It's justified, this time, isn't it?"

"For once, would you just accept that what I'm saying isn't some ploy for someone to admit guilt? This isn't your fault, Karkat; get it into your head!"

"What about my being viewed as a delinquent isn't my fault? What am I supposed to do? How do we just stop like that? This isn't over; it can't be over! I won't—" his voice cracks at a critical moment, and the three of you are dead silent, along with the rest of the students in the halls, meekly listening to all hell breaking loose. "I won't let it be over, damn it! I won't!"

A violent metal clang and his hand must have slammed into a locker. You barely hear Terezi draw a breath, not helplessly, oh no. If Terezi is anything, it's not helpless; it's more in tense anticipation, then, as she exhales, resignation. The scrape and clack of her cane being withdrawn from the wall, the reverberating footsteps moving unevenly from where Karkat has to be standing. The footsteps stop, and in your mind's eye she addresses him without even looking back. "Maybe they're right." Her voice is slow, even, confident.

"Terezi, no; no they're not. They're not—"

"If this is the way you're going to react—"

"God, no, stop it, stop talking—"

"Let me finish! Maybe we shouldn't see each other anymore!" A solid thwack against wood again, and a door creaks, slams behind her. For a moment the silence is deafening.

Then, "FINE! MAYBE THEY'RE RIGHT! YOU KNOW WHAT, STAY IN THERE FOR ALL I CARE!" You finally spot him stomping down the hall, past gawking faces, past you, and you reach out to grab his arm and stop him, but you're slapped away. His anger is palpable, a seething, churning aura around him that triggers instincts that scream at you to back away, just back away and you'll live. Fight or flight, you remember, and decide to fight. You take hold of his arm again, and he twists in your grasp. His nails dig into your hand, breaking the skin, making blood bead around his fingers, but you don't let go. "Get your hands off me, Makara, or I swear I'll—"

"Tell me what happened, bro." You've got a pretty solid idea, but you have to be sure what made Karkat this furious. "I'm just asking what happened, alright." His hand releases yours, but you don't relinquish your grip on his arm, fearing that if you lighten up just enough he'll take off running. He turns to you then, and remember what you said about his death glare? Well, that doesn't hold a candle to the look he shoots now, those near-red eyes boring into you with such rage that you nearly drop him.

"Mind. Your own. Damn. Business." The words are forced out through gritted teeth bared like an animal's, and you can understand how such a small guy can terrify anyone who's seen him like this.

"I'm not gonna. Something's majorly wrong, and I'm gonna up an' help."

"Shut up."

"No."

"Shut the _hell _up, Makara."

"Tell me."

He wrenches free of your grasp with a sudden burst of energy, catching you off guard to shove you from behind and wheel to face you. "She dumped me, okay? Her parents don't want her seeing me because they think I'm a _freaking delinquent! _I get it now; it's not my fault! It's all because of you, and your freaking insanity, and now you've cost me Terezi! You've cost me her!" Your brain is frozen in place, and you can't piece the puzzle together. All the facts he'd hurled at you are floating in your head, shooting past one another but never fitting, never making sense. But you're shaken blank again as he grabs the collar of your hoodie and yanks you down to eye level. "Now will you get the fuck out of my way?" He lets you loose, and you dumbly step aside as he storms back the way he came, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and tearing out of one of the side doors without the notice of any teachers. Not knowing what to say or do, you turn to your bros, but they're staring back at you in the same wide-eyed confusion you must have on your face. Tavros lets some mayonnaise from his sandwich slip into his lap and doesn't even notice.

Sollux returns to piecing together his lunch from a microwavable container, continually brushing crumbs off his lap or smoothing his shirt, adjusting his collar, every little fidgeting motion giving away the fact that he's just as shaken as the rest of you. A few minutes of lunch pass in silence before Sol speaks up again.

"He overreacted." Both you and Tav turn to him. Of course he overreacted. It was practically a given with his anger issues. But that combined by a depression he has to take medication and endure counseling for? The kid is volatile, to say the least, and you seem to be incapable of talking him out of whatever crazy plot he plans next. Your head is spinning; with everything going on at such a staggering pace, you're not sure if you'll be able to keep up. What had happened yesterday and today? You got locked in, Sollux pranked Eridan in the basement, and Tavros came back from winter break realizing that… was it that his grandpa had a tumor? Yeah, that was it, and today you got back into the swing of things until Karkat and Terezi got into a fight, broke up, and now Karkat is somewhere in the city, probably either home or just outside and waiting to come back in. Okay, now you're feeling a bit less muddled.

"Aren't you a bit worried for him?" Tavros pipes up, looking up from wiping off the mayonnaise occasionally. Sollux puts down his fork and gives Tav this, 'are you that oblivious?' sort of look.

"Of courthe I'm worried about him. We all are. I'm jutht thaying that he thould've waited until there weren't clatheth to mith to leave the building."

The absence of Karkat clings to you all through the rest of school, even though you share no more classes with him. Everything has suddenly become an issue concerning one of your friends, if there hasn't been one already, and you see everything that seems to be going awry on each of your friends' faces. Tavros must have gotten his dose of intrusive pity before he came back to school, and even though he's not even the one who suddenly has the burden of knowing he only has a small interval of time left to walk, you know how these things go. It's awkward to look, even though you had no problem before you realized what you were feeling, but Tav's eyes seem to have become like yours, Sollux's, and Karkat's, tired and worn. You must space out, because the next thing you know he's meeting your eyes directly, and although they're not piercing like Sollux's, your tolerance of eye-contact drops to near zero and you have to look away before he asks questions. Hey. No. This is Karkat's problem, Karkat's day, but thoughts of others, specifically Tav, keep leaking into your brain. He shakes you, which says a lot, considering when you're subdued and pretty much doped up by your pills you're pretty much unshakeable. But he's got you feeling things that you consider so out of character for you and to be frank it makes you nervous. See? Nervousness and Gamzee do not mix and have never mixed until now.

You can't sleep through study hall like you want to, and you wonder if this is how Sollux feels every day, mind whirling with problems that need complex solutions. Your mind wanders back to Karkat's issues. How do you get parents to like you, make them convert from thinking you're a hoodlum to finding you respectable. It took you years after meeting Tavros and the accident to get his mom to accept that you're not a bad influence, but then again a friendship and a romantic relationship are more different than you previously thought. What did you do, what did you do? You were his friend, yes, and you hope you're a good one. You helped him with things he couldn't do due to—

That's it.

Your careless shuffle is punctuated by a spring in your step as you head with the bros to practice. You exhale and watch your breath fog in the air around you, disappearing into that same grey sky that you saw, raw, at the bottom of the hill. You gather up handfuls of slush, dyed the colors of earth and ash by every car that passes by, and fling them at unused and boarded up buildings, used ones, cars, and the brave squirrel that ventures out in this weather. You even, on the home stretch, manage push Tavros at 'turbo speed' all the way to his house, leaving Sollux to reach the garage door, a panting mess, as you set up. You open your ears to the sounds of a pre-practice warm-up: Tav tapping at his drums, the adrenaline most likely just leaving him, the persistent plucking and dizzy rises and falls of notes as you tune your guitar, scales from Sollux's synth in various tones. You start noodling around and come dangerously close to slipping away into the music, recalling the tunes and chords from what you hear every night on the radio, turning in place and closing your eyes, about to give in to the sound, the feeling, of lyrics and music and not minding at all.

"Okay. How did he go from a clueleth kicked puppy to thith clown who lookth like he jutht got laid? How ith that even pothible?" You're jolted back to the real world with Sollux's voice, animated and irritable, piercing the tunes that had just cradled your mind. You breeze over and pat him on the head, which is easy, considering that even though he's of medium height you tend to tower over even the guys.

"Fear not for my sanity, brother," you mimic a sophisticated accent and fail miserably from the first word on, "for I have none. But I do have a plan." You leave them both to thinking as you scavenge sheet music you made from notebook paper from the dark depths of your backpack, un-crumple it, and hand the respective parts to your broskis. "I hope you're happy, Mr. Lispy. Two clefs, two staffs, twice as many notes and twice as much time to make your notes. Good thing you're a bro and I'd do this for ya without trying." You're quick to change the subject, signaling to Tav and Sol that this quest is yours, but Sollux seems to be trying to get your attention.

"Don't you do everything without trying?" You puff out a laugh, knowing he's almost entirely true, but he normally doesn't address your questions that double as compliments to friends. But it's Sollux, Sollux who asks a million questions and somehow has the time to analyze each and every one of them, regardless of how stupid they may seem. He brings the paper back over to you, pointing out passages late in the song in forte, part of an instrumental. "Hey," he starts, "do you think I could add a bit more motion to thith, you know, make the noteth thorter and acroth a wider range than jutht thith chord? You theem like you're planning thomething with thith, tho I jutht thought…" You nod your head in response.

"Yeah, that sounds great. Like make up a tune or somethin'? Lemme hear it when you're done with those sick beats." With a start you remember what you were thinking of for the particular number you were playing. "Hey, Solbro, any way you can record Tav's part on the instrumental?"

He cocks his head to the side of that icy blue eye. "Why jutht the drumth? What're you—" An elated sound on the part of Tavros makes you both turn to him.

"A rap part? Like, a real, solo rap part? You mean I can just… go out there and… really?" He's staring at the paper with those eyes gleaming excitedly, and if you wanted to start a mush fest you could go on about how such and such glistened in them but you don't. They're just normal brown eyes, a bit wide and a bit big, but other than that there's nothing to get lost in. You temporarily forget that getting lost in nothing is your specialty. His excitement quickly melts into anxiety, though, and he peeps out, "Wh-what do I say? I'll be up there in front of all these people, and… and… what if I flop?" You'd like to say that he won't, reassure him like any good friend would do, but he's always been prone to stage fright and so you can't give a direct, immediate answer. You remember the reason why you're letting him off on the drums, why he'll be slamming the audience with his ill rhymes right at the front of the stage. Hopefully, if you can get your act together, Tav will be walking to the center of attention with some shiny new legs and perhaps some confidence. You shake your head, trying to take advantage of this brief, laziness-free period of your life, and discuss the parts and tones a bit more before finally, finally, letting the music just take you.

You've forgotten how exhilarating it is, jamming with your bros and letting yourself use all of your voice, letting everything not typically Gamzee be represented in song and the metallic sliding of fingers on strings. You're naturally loud, and the microphone and amplifier to the electric guitar supercharges the sound until it fills up your ears and traps you in its world and there's no hope for you. There really isn't. You know you won't go far, of course, but maybe, just maybe, if you can make your passionate love affair with music known to the world, life might not suck when you grow up. You reach the instrumental before Tav's solo where you're supposed to stop and figure out what to do then, but you're so lost in your own little world that you don't notice, even when the playing around you ceases until someone—Tavros or Sollux, you can't tell which—shouts at you to stop, stop, you're done. Your hands still on the frets and strings and you come back down to Earth, thinking for a split second that you're going to start aching if you don't start the song again.

"W-wow, I thought you were going to break that thing…" Tavros gawks, breaking into a half-grin, never a real smile. Not even in your shoving match, which should have prompted that out-loud laughter that he somehow has in common with Terezi (though you've never heard him cackle, thank goodness), did he manage that ear to ear smile that makes him seem so young. You mop your brow with the back of your sleeve and shuffle over to the drums, the main place besides that old couch where you congregate to talk things through. You wind up falling onto the couch anyway, given its close proximity to your equipment.

"Guuuuyyysss," you whine to the ceiling, intending for the words to reach your friends, "Why couldn't we have just ran through? We were sounding like a—c'mon, you know what I'm gonna say—like a miracle just now! I'm serious, it was like the music was up and flowin' through my veins, welcoming me into its own special world where everything sounds like—"

"You need to take your pillth." You turn your head, hugging your guitar to your chest, and whoa, since when did Sollux get over here? He may be right: your focus on the sound is long gone, and you now feel no desire to get back in the game. Plus, if you're going to help your Karbro out, you're going to have to be as alert as you can be, which is why, as you crouch down over your backpack, you contemplate taking two, maybe three of the pills before remembering they're depressants and more than one would do more harm than good. You feel around in your backpack for the telltale lump of a can or bottle, but after a minute or so of searching, your quest becomes futile. You slump to the floor, dragging yourself on your stomach over to where Sollux and Tavros are still working out the drum parts. Feebly, you grab hold of Sol's pant leg; most likely catching him off guard, he makes some choked noise and flails in place, freeing himself a little too frantically for your liking. "What the actual crap, Gamthee? Why did you dethide that you felt the urgent need to do that?" Got him. The perfect combination of shocked and flustered is your personal reward for a sneak attack well done. "Okay, you really need to take your pillth," he snaps, his shoe (the white one, as he'd taken to wearing mismatched shoes anyway) digging into your messy, wild hair.

"Ow, god—no, you do," you reply with the knowledge that Tav is pretty much the only bro who doesn't require a medical routine for mental issues. "And I can't."

"Why not? You do realithe that you're the only thing keeping uth from practithing." His words are particularly biting now, and it seems you're right; his bipolarity is showing, even as he frees you from the wrath of a size eleven Sollux foot. "Wathn't it you that wath tho inthpired by our 'thick beath?'"

"Thip thip thip," you reply, now knowing full well that you won't be able to get yourself back in order unless you're calmed down, but there's a predicament that keeps you from gaining control of yourself. "You don't understand, bro."

"What don't I underthtand?"

"The Faygo is gone. My life is over. Oceans will rise, cities will fall, but Gamzee will not survive." You somewhat quote one of the few school books you remember in a vain attempt to get your bros to feel sorry for you. The squeak of damp metal acquires your attention, and you look up just long enough to see Tavros pulling a small can, maybe eight ounces, of Redpop Faygo out of a miniscule refrigerator you seem to have forgotten existed. He bends down to hand it to you just as you're pushing yourself up, and your foreheads smack into each other with a sharp sound that suddenly alerts you to everything. After apologies from both parties, you're picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and chugging down self-restraint. It's more increased resolve than the pills that makes you pick up your guitar again and listen intently to what has been decided that will happen during the instrumental, but as you begin playing you feel them kick in after a few minutes, sharpening your senses and dampening your euphoria. You become painfully aware of all the situations hidden behind the determined faces of your friends, and you're almost anxious to be back home once practice is officially over. The reason? A text from Karkat to Sollux telling him not to bother freeloading in a very blunt manner.

You stay after, as you always do, not quite up to chatting with Ms. Nitram, as you sometimes do. You and Tavros chat about small things, never bringing up Karkat's explosion, much less Tav's grandpa's situation. The only thing he mentions is the fact that the surgery is sometime in early February, just before Valentine's Day. There aren't as many jokes as before break, simply because you haven't found many new ones to tell. Tavros lets you in on the details of the car rides: where they stayed, what it was like, how many rest areas they stopped at (at his mom's request), et cetera. As you don your hoodie to leave, strolling down the streets to your neighborhood, taking in the muted colors of winter, you realize that Tavros had purposely skirted around another aspect that he might have not found significant, but you did. Tavros Nitram completely left out the time, last night, when you held each other in the dark, empty hallways, alone save for your breathing and the questions that were left unsaid between you.


	10. In which you try to be sneaky

((Oh god, guys, I'm so sorry for posting this so late. Throughout my writing of this chapter I was hit with probably the worst writer's block I ever had. Literally, I would sit down and not be able to write anything. It was awful. But, finally, the chapter is out! I don't really like the way it turned out at all, and I really wish I could have made the characters more... in character. But depite its flaws, here it is! Thank whoever stayed for bearing with me, and reviews are always appreciated and encouraged!

Homestuck belongs to the HUss of Lips, but the human versions and the storyline are mine.))

* * *

><p><strong>terminallyCapricious [TC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG].<strong>

TC: HeEeEy, BeSt FrIeNd.

TC: YoU'rE pRoBaBlY nOt GoNnA wAnNa AnSwEr Me RiGhT nOw

TC: BuT i JuSt ThOuGhT i'D tElL yOu.

TC: I gOt A pLaN.

TC: yOu KnOw, To GeT yOuR gIrLfRiEnD bAcK.

TC: :o)

TC: bEsT fRiEnD?

TC: aRe YoU tHeRe?

CG: GET OUT.

TC: BuT bRo, I rEaLlY tHiNk I'vE uP aNd GoT a GoOd IdEa HeRe.

TC: YoU dOiNg SoMeThInG nOw?

CG: BLOCKING YOU.

TC: BrO, cOmE oN.

TC: hErE mE oUt BeFoRe YoU gO aNd BlOcK mE.

TC: tHiS mIgHt SeEm KiNdA fAr FeTcHeD,

**carcinoGeneticist [CG] blocked terminallyCapricious [TC].**

You slam your head on the nearby desk, as your third method of communication utterly fails. Karkat hadn't responded to one of your few and far between emails and texts, and now he's completely resisted your efforts to talk things out via Pesterchum. You tug on your hair in frustration, running your other hand along the stubble that appeared due to the lack of resources over the past day or two. Another farfetched idea worms its way into your head, already over full, and you quickly log off of your account, trying, instead, to access Karkat's. You're not that much of a planner, or a critical thinker for that matter, but your knowledge of the Kar-meister extends to his expertise with empty threats. Therefore, maybe, just maybe, he hadn't changed his password; you don't know how the two possibilities fit together, but you give it a try, punching in 'carcinoGeneticist' in the username box and the telltale 'password' in the password box. You cross your fingers while the old computer strains itself loading, loading, for minutes until something clicks and his Pesterchum account comes to life before your eyes. Bingo. You quickly unblock yourself and in less than five minutes you're in your own Chumhandle again, spamming the heck out of your bro.

**terminallyCapricious [TC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG].**

TC: YoU wErE sAyInG sOmEtHiNg aBoUt BlOcKiNg Me?

TC: ;o)

CG: OH

CG: HELL

CG: NO.

TC: HeLl YeS, bRoThEr.

TC: I'd SaY tHaT yOu'D nEeD tO cHaNgE tHaT pAsSwOrD oF yOuRs,

TC: BuT wE gOtTa GeT oUr CoNvErSiNg On.

CG: YOU THINK I WON'T BLOCK YOU AGAIN?

CG: I'LL DO IT. CHANGE MY PASSWORD TOO.

TC: EmPtY tHrEaTs, BeSt FrIeNd.

TC: I'm JuSt SaYiN' i GoT aN iDeA aNd I tHiNk It'S a PrEtTy GoOd One.

CG: YOU KNOW WHAT?

CG: FINE.

CG: IT'S NOT LIKE I HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO WITH MY LIFE THAN LISTEN TO YOU POINTLESS MUSINGS THAT WILL BEAR ABSOLUTELY NO FRUIT WHATSOEVER.

CG: WHISPER YOUR DREAMS INTO MY EVER-EAGER EAR CANAL.

CG: WAIT. ONE SECOND.

CG: DO SEE THOSE?

CG: NO?

CG: THOSE ARE ALL THE FUCKS I GIVE.

TC: I'lL tAkE tHaT aS a YeS.

TC: wIlL a MiStEr KaRkAt VaNtAs PlEaSe FiLl OuT tHiS qUeStIoNaIrE?

CG: GOOD GOD, WHAT DID I JUST GET MYSELF INTO?

TC: yOu CaN uP aNd ThAnK mE lAtEr.

CG: LAY IT ON ME, IF IT SATISFIES YOUR FREAKY OBSESSIONS.

TC: WhY tErEzI?

CG: WHAT?

CG: WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

TC: jUsT, wHy'D yOu ChOoSe HeR? wHy'D yOu PiCk ThE bLiNd GiRl?

CG: I REPEAT. WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?

CG: YOU WANT HONESTY? FINE, WHATEVER, I'LL BE HONEST.

CG: HER DETERMINATION, I GUESS.

CG: I MEAN—HELL, SHE'S BLIND, AND HERE SHE IS AT A NORMAL SCHOOL, AND SHE JUST GOES ALONG WITH IT AND KEEPS SMILING AND LAUGHING THE WHOLE WAY THROUGH.

CG: I FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT ALREADY.

CG: I THOUGHT THAT THE BENEVOLENT KARKAT WOULD BE HER KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR AND ALL THAT CRAP. WHY NOT? NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED, THAT'S FOR SURE. SHE DIDN'T NEED SAVING. SHE NEVER NEEDED SAVING. SHE WAS JUST THAT STRONG. IT… SURPRISED ME. IT FREAKING SCARED ME FOR A WHILE.

CG: SOCIETY IS HER ENEMY, AND SHE'S GOT AN UNFAIR HAND AT LIFE. I MEAN COME ON. DON'T EXPECT PEOPLE TO RESPECT SOMEONE WHO'S BLIND, NOT A WHITE MALE, AND HAS IMMIGRANT PARENTS. DON'T GIVE ME THAT 'RACISM ISN'T A THING ANYMORE' BULLCRAP. BECAUSE IT IS; ESPECIALLY AT THIS PRISON OF A HIGHSCHOOL.

TC: I kNoW tHe FeElInG. :o(

CG: I'M NOT THERE TO MAKE HER FEEL LIKE SHE'S PRETTY OR WHATEVER. SCREW THAT. SHE DOESN'T NEED ME FOR THAT; SHE DOESN'T NEED A GUY OR ANYONE BUT HERSELF FOR THAT, AND I BET SHE ALREADY KNOWS IT.

CG: I JUST WANT TO

CG: CRAP, I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WANT TO DO. ALL IN ALL SHE'S STRONG ENOUGH TO BE COMPLETELY INDEPENDENT AND LOVE IT. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY SHE CHOSE ME. BUT SINCE SHE DID I WANT TO MAKE HER GLAD SHE DID, AND HOPE THAT SOMEHOW I'M IMPROVING HER LIFE LIKE SHE'S IMPROVING MINE.

CG: THERE. ARE YOU HAPPY? I JUST DESECRATED THE CHARACTER OF KARKAT VANTAS. HELL, I WENT SOCIAL. REMIND ME NEVER TO RANT TO YOU AGAIN, LEST I TURN INTO A BLOB OF MIRACLE-INFUSED JELLY THAT ONCE HAD SOME TRACE OF A PERSONALITY.

CG: HOW DO YOU EVEN OBLITERATE YOUR OWN PERSONA THE WAY I JUST DID WITHOUT ANY DRUGS OR ALCHOHOL? IS THAT EVEN A THING YOU CAN DO?

TC: :oD

CG: WHAT.

TC: yOu UsEd MiRaClEs. YoU aCtUaLlY uSeD mIrAcLeS.

TC: fOr ReAlS.

CG: YEAH. BIG FLIPPING DEAL. NOW WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO AFTER I DESTROY MY TEMPERMENT UNDER YOUR EVER-WATCHFUL EYE?

TC: tElL iT aLl AgAiN tO tHe PyRoPeS!

CG: YOU DID NOT.

TC: i GoT a TiNy TuX fRoM lIkE eIgHtH gRaDe YoU cAn BoRrOw AnD wEaR tO dInNeR.

CG: NO. HELL NO. I AM NOT PUTTING ON A 'TINY TUX' AND MAKING MYSELF 'DECENT' IN FRONT OF PARENTS WHO HATE MY FREAKING GUTS.

TC: mAkE rOoM SAtUrDaY nIgHt.

CG: GAMZEE MAKARA I AM NOT GOING.

TC: SeE yA bRo. ;o)

CG: DON'T YOU DARE SIGN OFF! THIS IS IN NO WAY FUNNY. THERE IS NOT A SINGLE DISCERNABLE SOUND OF MIRTH COMING FROM MY WINDPIPE.

CG: GAMZEE.

CG: GET YOUR ASS BACK ON THIS PESTERLOG RIGHT THIS INSTANT.

**terminallyCapricious [TC] ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG].**

And voila, your plan is underway. It's taken around two days of zoning out in class (which isn't that odd, really), and trying to actually pin Terezi down for a good old conversation, but you might just have it. You're not much of a schemer, that's for sure; you like to act on your emotions and impulses, whenever they may arise, which hasn't been very often until recently. Capricious, Terezi calls it, just like your username. Actually, once you've started talking to her, your blind sister has lent you quite a bit of help constructing the details of the plan. She took great pains, however, to remind you over and over that this was for a chance at her and Karkat, has nothing to do with you, and that your plan is simply a nice coincidence. Saturday night, the Pyropes would have the traditional gap in their busy work schedules to have that big family dinner, Caribbean style, and would almost always have a family friend over. This time though, the guest would be Karkat, looking as stereotypically, traditionally clean-cut as possible. The idea, to both of you, is like that one pill you have to take that looks too thick for your throat. Pretty much everyone you associate with, yourself included, doesn't think that there's a particular mould to clean-cut, and you know you will never fit that mould. You've both decided, though, that for the sake of preserving their relationship you would have to conform to society just this once. You had a good laugh about that.

You lean back in your non-spinny chair, careful not to topple over like you did before, and think that maybe, just maybe, you gained your bro's trust again. With two relatively unpredictable people, trust tends to resolve and break in short periods, a fact you're not sure you're thankful for. A huge yawn forces its way out of you, and you take the time to glance at the clock. 11:52. Lovely. Friday means tests, tests, and more tests most of the time, but since you only have a quiz in one subject tomorrow and no work on your project, you feel tempted to take the day off. This means one less day of planning, so you reschedule playing hooky until next week. A normally closed door to your room has left it stuffy and hot despite the weather, so you end up brushing your teeth, removing your face paint, and burrowing under the covers in your boxers. You thought it would take longer for you to fall asleep, but you suppose you were wrong, because the next sound you hear is that wretched alarm blaring in your ear, but this time you shut it off and continue the dream from which you were so rudely awakened.

How are you supposed to know you would end up sleeping three more hours and get so lost in your dream you don't want to wake up? Your eyes snap open thirty minutes after school starts, and you have to take a minute to return to reality from the vivid colors of fantasy. In that minute you forget all the details, save for one, which stays with you as you end up hobbling to the bathroom and splashing your face with cold water to get rid of the burning everywhere else. You wonder why mornings have begun to conspire to embarrass you in all possible ways. You decide to take your time and wait through gym at home, actually partaking of a decent breakfast (if you count that incredible sugary cereal as decent) and trying not to wake up your father, who had, at some hour of the morning, conked out on the couch in full business attire. You make the leisurely drive to school after throwing on fresh jeans and a t-shirt that will probably never be seen under a rather morbid hoodie, plopping into your seat about halfway through Algebra 2. You end up having to stay after class and get a stern lecture from the teacher about your 'inexcusable tardiness' and 'blatant disregard for the rules and regulations of this institution' but only stay tuned in when she asks you if you understand her.

"Sure, teach, I gotcha." The words are automatic and fake to you by now, but the teacher seems to indicate that she accepts what you're saying "I'll be sure to get here right at the bell next time." Before you give her a chance to respond, you're out the door in a fruitless effort to make it to your physics class, down a couple flights of stairs and across the school. You're not kept after this time, but you get an absolutely piercing look from the physics teacher, who you swear has demon eyes and knows how to use them. A thick packet of what first looks like gibberish reminds you that this was the class you had that quiz in, 'quiz' being a relative term. With a gulp, you sift through the packet while your instructor has his back turned and remember that a physics quiz in this class is a pretty big deal and amounts to the content of a regular test in any other class. And you didn't study. Well, crap. The entire period is dedicated to the 'quiz' that you can barely fumble through. You're about three-fourths done by the time your assignment is picked up, and you're not sure that the answers to the questions you did answer even made sense to anyone but you. You slink out of the room as soon as the bell rings, eyes on the ground in order to avoid the icy stare of your teacher as he reviews everyone's work. You shuffle across the school again to ancient history and peer around the room to see if Karkat has actually shown up since the shouting match of a few days ago. No such luck. It's not like Karkat to skip this many days in a row, but no one in the room thinks anything of it, seeing as the news spread like wildfire and is all in the heads of everyone you know. You notice Terezi in a corner of the room, far from where she normally sits, refraining from the raucous chatter she normally engages in. You move to talk to her, to give her some company because it seems like she needs it, but a pale, freckled hand stops you.

"You really think you wanna do that?" Dave. No, god no, not today. Calm down, Makara, play it cool; you're beyond this. Besides, you might freak out the students.

"Do what? What d'you want?" Welp; that could've come out better. But you don't even know if he's looking at you through those thick, gaudy shades, arms akimbo like he rules the world, the little punk. Suddenly that deadpan, coolkid face looks incredibly puchable. But of course, any mishap with someone, Dave especially, could have your rear shipped to the office and out of school before you can blink. You count to ten in your mind like the counselor said and let yourself listen.

"What I want is to know why you wanna talk to Terezi right now," he states, not giving any information as to why you shouldn't. So, naturally, you have to ask.

"Why shouldn't I up an' talk to her?" He smacks the heel of his hand against his forehead, most likely in exasperation. You can't decipher the look he gives you, since it's barely a look, but you think it would translate to 'don't you get it?' You've got the attention of the room now; the tension between the two of you sparks old fears borne of a rivalry and shattered fantasies. He shakes his head, nudges a chair leg with his sneaker.

"Dude. Okay. Don't you think that I, as a friend and confidante of dragon girl's, would know what's going on?" You look over at her, the only pair of eyes in the room not on you for obvious reasons. She seems to be making no attempt to listen, either. Another pale hand waves in your face to get your attention, and you get the weird sense that, for some odd reason, he's no place to do that. "Hey, clown, over here," he retorts to some body language you must have given. "Just listen. This is the version of the story I heard. They fought again—don't make me explain what I mean by 'they; you can't be that dense—something about conspiring behind his back. Another sound barrier shatterer; heard it was nasty. Karkat better get his anger issues under control, because she's not a weeper."

"And that means…"

"Means she wasn't a weeper until the tiny terror started screwing everything up." Oh.

"Oh," you say.

"Yeah, oh; nice comeback." His deadpan is getting really freaking creepy, but if it contributes to your plan, you might as well listen. "You are the absolute king of retorts. I should be bowing in your presence, insulting you more often to partake of your vast knowledge in the art of the smart mouth. I stand before thee as a noble servant of—"

"You were up and sayin' something."

"Right. Basically, keep your nose outta other people's business and it'll be smooth sailing from here on out." He makes an imaginary horizontal line with his hand to indicate just how smooth the sailing would be. You nod, skeptical.

"You're being nice." The words come out of your mouth the instant you think of them, but you think you're right this time. Dave cocks his head, shrugs his shoulders.

"Not really. You're a friend of the royal jerkface and I'm a bud of Terezi's, so I thought I might as well go out of the way, benevolent soul that I am, to tell you to butt out of their dilemma." He stuffs his hands in his pockets as the teacher walks into the room, and your mind is a mess of thoughts like who is he to tell you what to do and what does he know about your role in all this, but you bite your tongue and keep on the best dopey Gamzee face you can. "Anyway, that was all I wanted to say, so you can go back to doing whatever the heck weirdoes like you and your freak brigade do, so yeah. Have fun with that or whatever." And with that the din of pre-class chatter dies down and you end up spending all of fourth period not really listening to what the lesson is about, whatever it's about. You don't even care, because now it is on, now you're going to get so deep in their conflict that you won't be able to get out.

Of course, no one is surprised that you skip out on practice after school that day in order to pay a visit to your grumpy little friend, tiny tux in tow. You know you're taking a considerable risk that could invoke the wrath of not only Karkat, but Equius as well, if he's already home. You can already feel the tension sparking in the air from your last visit, when you and Karkat unanimously decided that he should sleep over at your place to avoid awkward conversations and to prevent another bloody nose and black eye (and yes, it did show up). Apparently the fact that they were simply the closest items around and that you had no idea what you were doing didn't suffice for a gentleman with the body type of a linebacker who was dead set on protecting (and carrying out revenge for) his younger friend. You're crossing your fingers, hoping that at least Equius would have something after school. You've come to know that the Vantases tend to leave the door open in the afternoons, and your Karbro informed you that it's because Nepeta doesn't have a house key yet, so when you finally reach the building it's only a short stroll through the lobby and a slightly uncomfortable ride up an elevator next to a middle aged man with odd, darting eyes before you're pushing the door in as quietly as possible, though you're not sure why. You discover that when you hear his voice, frantic and cracking, emanating from the direction of his room; no other signs of movement tell you that he's most likely the only one in the apartment and that the person he's talking to is conversing through the phone. Of course, you've never really gotten used to that tall, lanky body of yours, so your attempted sleuthing is cut short as you trip over your own feet and tumble into the apartment. The talking stops completely, and everything is dead silent for a moment, save for your breathing, and even that is barely audible, probably because you're trying not to breathe. You're not sure why you even want to hide in the first place, especially because you now have that terrible constriction in your chest that always comes with being nearly found out. You hear a chair swivel, and you're determined not to move, and you decide at the last moment to be sneaky, mainly because that tight feeling has given way to exhilaration and anticipation, that and you desperately want to know who Karkat is talking to that makes him sound that way, though you have an idea.

"Hold on one second," You know exactly why he's stopping, and it only makes the breath you're trying to restrict come faster. But you hear a sigh of exasperation, and then, "Nepeta, I've got a crapton of computer homework, so I lay claim to it for tonight." He actually thinks you're her? With that heavy stumbling you were just doing? That was a trademark Gamzee move, but you won't look a gift horse in the mouth. Doing your best annoyed-younger-sister impression, you quickly collect yourself and stomp dramatically over to the kitchen where—voila!—an old beige phone, complete with that swirling cord that continues to capture your interest sits in its holder. Hopefully your bro is using the other landline, because you're curious enough to want in on the conversation; you barely make a sound as you pick it up and press it to your ear, keeping the silent breathing a thing.

Karkat's voice comes out blaringly loud on the other end. "Siblings. Be grateful you don't have them. Nepeta's in full–scale brat mode, apparently." So it worked? Heck yes. "But whatever; forget her. I don't get it, Terezi. Why on earth would they drop this bomb _now?"_

"Karkat, just don't question the folks, alright?" The sound of Terezi is significantly softer, and it comes as a great relief, considering that using two phones in the same house results in your hearing Karkat's breathing like he's right behind you. "What do you think they would think that my introduction to them was having them walking in on us… yknow…"

"Making out."

"Yeah." Oh, so that's what it was? You would say you understand more of the situation but the swirling cord has transfixed you again, and you try to play with it as quietly as possible while trying to listen at the same time. That amount of trying with that many objects and people becomes a bit too much, and you force yourself to let go of the cord and just pay attention for once. "I bet I could smell you blushing through the phone." Heck, you can hear her smirking.

"Shut up."

"No." She continues. "Anyway, you know how old fashioned they are. I know they want the best and all that, but jeez. Give me a social life, why don't they? Here's what I hate." She huffs into the phone, her breath magnified to sound deeper and more intimidating than it probably is. "They're only happy when I make them. I say something like, I think I want to become a lawyer or something related and they're all over me. 'Look at our little girl making something out of her life!' and then I mention anything about my social life—this is before they told me to quit you—and they just go dead silent. It's like they want school to be the only part of my life! And dating: oh no, never that! Only work. You don't get anywhere falling for anyone. Ask my married parents who are here, for Pete's sake. They didn't come here together, they didn't tell me stories all these years about they planned to run away and come here to elope and make something out of their life together. God, drives me nuts."

There's a long pause then, a silence that you can tell is awkward, since in the background you can hear Karkat's fingers drumming on some surface or another, puffs of his breath blasting your eardrums at random, uneven intervals. You hear a long breath, and then,

"I don't want to fight anymore." Terezi sounds tired, exhausted, nowhere near her normal animated and somewhat flirty self, and for good reason. "Really, I'm sick of it. And I know you are, too." She laughs then, but it's halfhearted. "Even though I'm sure that ginormous voice box of yours loved the workout."

"Ha ha freaking ha. I get that, and I am. So why don't we just—I don't know—do something about it? Yeah, fighting isn't my cup of tea, though now it's all I ever do, or so you say. Isn't there anything that'll make them see any reason?" For once Kar isn't yelling, which is a real treat for your ears, considering you'll probably be deaf in one of them before the call is over.

But when Terezi speaks up again, you're taken completely off guard. "Hey, I have an idea." An idea? The only idea she's told you about is the one you two worked together on. Did she figure out another, or—crap _Crap. _You never told her to let you explain it. Of course, she goes and does that: explain it. "Why don't you come over to my place for dinner on Saturday? The folks usually let a guest come over then, so you can just tidy up and I can probably squeeze you in. Hopefully they'll let you explain yourself, or whatever they need you to do."

Silence.

A lack of sound so prominent, so thick you could run a knife through it is all it takes to tear your fragile peace apart. Terezi calls Karkat's name, over and over until you're sure he's sick of it, but it all, somehow, gets swallowed up. And Karkat's words barely, just barely pierce it, but they're magnified by all the repressed emotion they obviously contain.

"You knew." Terezi says nothing, nothing at all, and you're trying with all your might to keep silent, but you remember there's a tuxedo in your hand and if you even move it'll make noise that travels right through the phone into Karkat's awareness. His voice is still deathly quiet when he speaks again. "You _were_ working behind my back. I should've known."

Terezi seems to regain her voice because the next thing you know she's spouting all these rebuttals, such as "I have no idea what you're talking about!" and "Nice work, mister suspicious, why don't you get promoted to conspiracy theorist?" Defense statements that someone with as sharp a wit as she would cringe at if she ever heard them herself.

"Terezi."

"Yes."

"You do realize that a certain Gamzee Makara told me the EXACT SAME THING?"

"…Oh. Actually no, I didn't."

And that's all it takes. Karkat's voice reaches a pitch that will probably leave your ears ringing for weeks. You can feel his rage again, and it's constricting you, leaving you begging for air when you know it would be a dead giveaway if you even drew a deep breath. You nearly jump out of your skin as his hand slams the table so hard you can feel it where you are.

"DO YOU MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU DIDN'T KNOW THAT GAMZEE MADE THE EXACT SAME PLANS AS YOU DID WITHOUT KNOWING ABOUT YOUR WHAT YOUR FAMILY DOES ON ANY GIVEN DAY? THAT'S A BUNCH OF BULL!"

"Karkat—shh! They don't want me talking to you!"

"THEY CAN JUST SUCK IT THEN, BECAUSE I'M GOING TO SHOUT AS MUCH AS I DAMN WELL PLEASE! WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU _TELL _ME, TEREZI? CAN'T YOU JUST TRUST ME? OR DO YOU THINK I'M A 'DELINQUENT,' TOO?" More deafening thumps, more objects being thrown and struck.

"Karkat, it's not like that—" He cuts her off before she gets a chance to explain herself, the both of you.

"THEN WHAT IS IT LIKE? WHAT DOES IT MEAN? THAT IT'LL ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS? THAT'S WHAT I DON'T WANT! SECRETS, SECRETS AND MORE. FREAKING. SECRETS. CAN'T YOU THINK OF OTHER WAYS TO TWIST THE KNIFE IN IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT TO DO? WHY, TEREZI?"

"Because I knew that _this _was how you'd react!" Apparently this catches Karkat off guard, because the yelling cuts itself short. The silence this time is stony, ominous, and seems to be the type that threatens to dismantle your patchwork plans. It's Terezi that speaks up this time, her voice barely above a whisper but barely below a shout. "I'm hanging up. Call me when you can trust me to make my own decisions." And just like that, you hear the telltale click, the dial tone on her end, and then you only have shuddering breath for company.

But he doesn't hang up.

Why doesn't he hang up?

You're prepared to wait as long as you possibly can until he puts the phone down and you can finally relax, but then Karkat draws a breath and your blood runs cold.

"Put down the phone, Gamzee."

The phone isn't put down; it falls, drops from your fingers that don't seem to work anymore and smacks the wall without ever hitting the floor, suspended by that one distracting cord. And then next thing you know—you're not even sure how much time you've been frozen in place, starting at nothing and hoping he never said what he said—he's standing at the entrance to that one dark, tight hallway that leads to every bedroom, including his. He looks like you would expect him to, face red and chest heaving, fists clenched, practically vibrating at his sides. You're cruisin' for a bruisin' and you know it, and normally Karkat isn't much of a physically violent person, but with the way you see him right now you'd rewrite that statement in a heartbeat.

"And you listened." He makes his way over to you and leans on the kitchen counter, those eerie eyes boring into you, and for once you can't keep eye contact. "You know, is there anyone I can call a friend that doesn't keep secrets from me now?" His grip on the countertop intensifies until his knuckles turn completely white and the thing freaking _creaks_ under the pressure.

Your voice comes out so small then that you almost understand how Tavros feels and Karkat, although he hasn't grown or even straightened up, looks twice his size. "I only wanted to get my help on, bro."

"You 'only wanted to get your help on.' You only wanted to get your _fucking help on._ Well I have a news flash for you, Makara. There are other ways to help than to stick your lanky ass in everybody's business, or doesn't that stick in your little mind?" He's shouting again, but his eyes tear away from you like he just looked at a victim of leprosy for as long as he possibly could. For a split second while he's still shaking you think he's more than just yelling, but a closer look proves otherwise. You take a risk and reach over to touch his shoulder, thinking, somehow, that by being chill and making it seem like everything's peachy the problem will somhow erase itself. You can tell just by the sting of his slap on your hand that your method certainly won't work.

"Hey, best friend—"

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" His voice rings through the apartment like it's a cathedral, and for a crushing moment it's only a soft gasp on your part and heavy breathing on his. And then a hand fists in his hair and he shakes his head frantically from side to side, almost like he's trying to take it all back. "Fuck. I mean, just—god, Gamzee—just don't talk to me, okay? Get out of my house and don't talk to me." You don't approach him again. Heck, you don't even look. You just place his tux as neatly as you can over the back of a chair and turn to leave. You would say some kind of goodbye, utter some sort of apology, but you're not talking to him. You're not talking to him because he doesn't want you to, but that doesn't mean you're out of the plan. You may not have a key role anymore, but your being in cahoots with Terezi, in your opinion, has earned you a backstage pass, and you will be sure to take full advantage of—

Something soft and life-size collides head-on with you, and you're sent stumbling back in the door; whatever the heck you just ran into hits the floor with a few sizeable 'oof's. When the world has stopped spinning around you and you've regained control of your body you lean down to investigate what you just knocked over, and when your eyes meet hers your stomach drops to your feet.

Sitting awkwardly at your feet, rubbing her arm through an oversized coat sleeve, is Nepeta. _The _Nepeta. The Nepeta you've been told time and time again to stay away from is staring up at you with big wide eyes and clutching her backpack to her shoulders, and she's right in front of you. You're really becoming tired of the long stretches of silence you've been experiencing this afternoon, and this one, like all the others, keeps you right on the edge.

She meets your eyes and smiles.

She _smiles. _A legit sheepish grin with no fear whatsoever glides across her face and she extends her hand to you. She wants you to help her up. You.

"If you don't mind," her voice has gotten more mature since the last time you saw her, and so, apparently, has her demeanor. "My backpack weighs like fifty pounds, so I'm kinda stuck here." She plays with her sandy hair until you finally snap out of it and pull her to her feet. She stands on her tiptoes as if trying to meet your eyes, but then lowers herself down, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Thanks! I was gonna say sorry for Equius and your face, but you never came back! So here's me apologizing now. Where's Karkitty?" It takes you a few moments, even then, for you to recognize that she's not mad, she's not afraid of you—or at least she isn't showing it. Dumbly, you gesture with your thumb inside and squeeze past her without saying a single word.

You may have hurt her before, but it's not you she has to worry about tonight.


End file.
